Ares and Artemis
by irnan
Summary: This is how it all begins, in 1976, Cold Oak, Wyoming. Admittedly, John had kinda given up on college after Vietnam, but hunting demons wasn't in his plans for the future, either. Then again, there's Mary...
1. prologue

_This is a disclaimer._

_**AN: **So, a while back, I started writing this long and convoluted AU about John and Mary Winchester, how and why they met and what happened then. This is... not quite that story. I was happily typing up the sixth chapter when I went back to look over the first one, and suddenly found myself gripped by a need to rework it and Make It All Better._

_This is_ that _story. I haven't deleted the originals, because I'm too lazy, but I probably should. Either way, I hope you enjoy the 'definite version' more than the last one. And chapter six is... on it's way. Don't rush me, I'm getting there._

* * *

**Ares and Artemis**

You know what he Chose them for, do you not? He had not been very interested in most of them before his little game began. There were too many, and he can bend almost anyone to his will, no matter what kind of person they are. Nevertheless, there were two Azazel was pleasantly surprised by and particularly pleased with. He was a warrior already; she held all the knowledge of her mother's family – the family who had come so close to destroying him over a hundred years ago.

They met in Cold Oak. Azazel's playground, some called it. They defeated the other Chosen sent there with them, killed in self-defense until they were the only ones left.

But this, as it soon became obvious, was Azazel's great mistake, pitting them against each other so soon, so early in his game. For the Warrior was but recently returned from another war, far to the east, and he had grown weary of killing. And she had been able, in the months since her gifts had developed, to glean some knowledge of what Azazel intended with this game of his.

It was no more than hunter's rumours and half-forgotten stories, but it was enough.

She told the Warrior what she had learned. And he replied that he would not fight her, that he would kill only in self-defense. He suggested they find a way to escape, to destroy Azazel instead.

She told him that during her search for the source of her gifts, she'd heard whispers of an ancient amulet, a Key made to be the focus point of a spell that could bind a demon's powers, and trap him for eternity.

They left Cold Oak together, using their gifts to escape Azazel's spawn that he sent after them. Turning their power on him who had given it to them in the first place.

For many months they traveled, searching for this fabled amulet, following false leads and legends, chasing hunters and seers who were rumoured to have knowledge of the amulet, destroying many other creatures along the way. They found a friend in a vampire hunter who gave them refuge after they saved his life not long after leaving Cold Oak, and an old comrade of the Warrior's often aided them in their search.

She taught him all she knew; he taught her how to fight, making a true Huntress out of the lorekeeper her parents had raised her to be.

Along the way, they fell in love.

At last, they found the amulet. Returning to Cold Oak, they summoned Azazel to his playground and imprisoned him.

Then they buried the amulet, hiding it deep in the foundations of the town, surrounding it with the most powerful protection spells they knew.

After that, the Huntress and her Warrior disappeared. Though they believed they were now safe, they never returned to the homes they had abandoned after taking on their quest. They had been gone too long, letting their families think them dead in order to protect them. With Azazel's binding, their abilities had waned, and now they built themselves a new life, avoiding the shadows and dangers of the old, and settled down to raise their child, already growing in his mother's womb at the time of their confrontation with Azazel.

But Azazel's spawn are numerous, and powerful, and some few are even loyal to their begetter.

One of these, his most trusted daughter, freed him.

Enraged, he discovered where they'd gone, his favourites, fallen now from his grace. And what he found there made him rub his hands in glee, for the Huntress had but recently conceived a second child by her Warrior. Immediately Azazel abandoned his original plan for bloody revenge and set about Choosing a new generation, of which the Huntress' unborn child would be a part.

But this time, he was in a hurry, and that made him clumsy, and incautious. Thrice he was nearly discovered before the child he truly wanted was old enough to be Chosen.

And even on the night of the boy's sixmonth birthday, he made a mistake, for the Huntress found him, standing over her son's crib.

Azazel killed her.

The Warrior was able to save his son from the burning ruins of their house, giving the baby into the keeping of his elder brother. Grief-stricken, he consulted a Seer, questioned her about the thing that had murdered his wife. Her words only strengthened the suspicions he had not wanted to give credence to.

Azazel was free once more.

Still, the Warrior returned to Cold Oak to make absolutely certain of his guess. He found the amulet removed from its hiding place, the protection surrounding it destroyed, it's magic almost wholly gone.

The Warrior knew that if Azazel should ever be able to win either boy over, then his bright, laughing, beautiful sons would be as good as dead, only their bodies remaining to do Azazel's bidding, their souls long gone. He did not know exactly how or even if his firstborn entered into Azazel's plans, but even as babes the bond between the two boys was strong, almost visible to those with the second sight. He had not needed theSeer to tell him that they would only stand - or fall - together.

And so he gave the amulet to his firstborn, to protect him from Azazel's spawn, and trusted that their begetter's plans for his secondborn would stop them attacking the boy - for now.

He began to train the boys, and himself. He knew well that without the Huntress' help so long ago, he would not have survived Cold Oak the first time.

He was determined that their sons should be better prepared, better able to defend themselves. Discovering all he could about Azazel was no easy matter, and it took years, but he would not repeat his past mistake, and make do with half-forgotten legends whose incompleteness would be his death as they had been his wife's.

Time went on, the younger boy's twenty-second year drawing closer, and the Warrior began to feel the beginnings of panic, for twenty-two was the age at which he and the Huntress had been taken to Cold Oak, and he still had not found a way to destroy Azazel. He abandoned all other pursuits and set out to find what he needed to keep his sons alive and safe.

But in the meantime, Azazel decided to take matters into his own hands, for nothing brought him greater pleasure than making the sons of his onetime favourites suffer for their parent's sins against him. And so, as the younger son's gifts began to develop, Azazel killed his lover, forcing the brothers to start searching for their father, looking for answers themselves, for the Warrior, ever fearing for their safety, had not told them of his past - nor their mother's.

Now I believe, Dean and Samuel Winchester, that you know the rest of the story, no? Do I take it then that your curiosity is now satisfied? Then let me return.


	2. i: playground

**Playground**

John slowly surfaced out of the darkness of sleep to find that something was _wrong_. Very wrong. The last thing he remembered of last night was getting back to the motel room somewhere in Colorado he and Deacon were staying in. But none of the motels they'd stopped in over the last two months of their road-trip had ever been this drafty. And none of the beds had been this hard, or lumpy. It felt like he was lying on… wooden planks.

He opened his eyes to the clear blue sky, and jerked upright in shock.

"Holy crap!"

"Sounds about right," a woman's voice said from behind him.

John wasn't sure how he managed to get onto his feet and turn to face her, as he was trembling with shock, but he did it. She was about his age, tall for a woman, slender and willowy, with long golden blonde curls caught up in a ponytail and bright green eyes. She was wearing frayed-out jeans and a man's loose shirt over a black t-shirt, and the look on her face was caught somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

And if he weren't so utterly and completely confused by all this, he would have said she was checking him out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he registered that they seemed to be standing on the outskirts of a town that appeared to have been abandoned since around 1820. The sun was out – it was about eleven o'clock in the morning, he guessed – but the streets were muddy. He didn't remember it raining last night.

"So where were you?" she asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

"Where was I?" Not the most eloquent of answers, but he didn't think he could manage anything else. No one who'd just woken up to find they'd teleported themselves in their sleep could've done better. He took a step off the planks he'd been lying on, and his boots squelched in the muddy wet grass.

She rolled her eyes. "Last night," she said. "Where were you?"

When in Rome, John. "Colorado. What about you?" The woods seemed to surround the town on every side, hemming it in like the thickets hiding Sleeping Beauty's castle. They were bare, grey and ominous-looking, in stark contrast to the bright sunlight.

"Connecticut, at my cousin's place. What's your name?"

John's eyebrows rose. Whoever she was, she was used to being in control of things. Well, too bad. So was he. "What's yours? You seem to know what's going on here."

"You don't seem too freaked out either."

A tall fence behind him, enclosing what had once been a field or meadow of some kind, and small huts and outbuildings around them, like on a farm. Of wood, mostly, rotted and abandoned.

"I'm guessing this is all in my head, right? I'll wake up soon and find I'm in a mental institution somewhere. Probably on my mother's orders."

She burst out laughing. He thought there was a slightly bitter undertone to it.

"No," she said, calming down. "No, this is real. Sorry."

"Sorry I'm not crazy?" If he wasn't, this conversation sure as hell was.

"Yes, actually. You're not going to like this."

"Tell me." He didn't mean to make it sound like an order, but she glared just the same. Oops.

But before he could try to rectify the situation, a guy in flares stumbled round the corner of the hut they were standing in front of and practically jumped out of his skin when he saw them.

"Oh, thank god!" he exclaimed.

"For?" the girl asked sweetly. There was a tense set to her shoulders, a sense of wariness in her posture that John recognised: the always-on-edge ready-for-anything stance of a fighter, a soldier. At first glance, it really didn't fit with her pretty face, her long wavy hair.

At second, it went perfectly with her eyes, dark and hard as emeralds.

The newcomer stared at her in panicked confusion. John thought he looked pretty green in the face. "People!" he said. "I mean, you guys… not alone, you know? Do you know where we are? Is there a way out? Is there a phone? We need to call the cops."

"Call the cops? Why?" John demanded.

Flare-guy pointed back the way he had just come "There's bodies back there… they're torn apart, man. It's awful."

Explained his colouring.

"Show me," the girl commanded, but flare-guy seemed to have finally remembered what his Mommy told him about talking to strangers, because he fixed, first her, and then John, with a very suspicious look.

"Who are you two?" he wanted to know, voice only wavering slightly.

John decided to just go for it. He'd spent enough time around killers lately to be relatively certain this guy wasn't one.

"I'm John Winchester," he said. "Just woke up, so don't even think about asking me anything else. The lady here seems to know a thing or two, however."

Flare-guy nearly fell on his ass trying to get away from her. She turned to John with a glare.

"If I were going to hurt you, you'd be dead already," she told him, and he almost believed her. There was no bravado to her words, just a simple statement of fact. "And yes, I do know a thing or two about this. Mostly how to survive it. But first I need to see those bodies."

John crossed his arms over his chest and tried to hide a grin. The more she talked, the more he liked her. Smart, sassy, no-nonsense, and good in a fight. Her very confidence proved that.

"Name, rank, and serial number," was all he said.

She huffed. "Mary Roberts."

He gave her his most charming smile, and made a sweeping gesture in the direction flare-guy had come from. "Thank you. Ladies first."

Was that a smile? Ha. Round one to him.

"I'm Nicholas, by the way," flare-guy said from somewhere behind them. John turned to look at him.

"Well, come on then!"

Somewhere inside him, he knew Mary was right: he should be more freaked out by all this. But it was just too surreal to be true. Like in dreams, there was a small part of his conscious mind that, detached from everything that was happening, was keeping up a running commentary on everything around him, clinically observing the utter nonsense his brain could come up with when supplied with enough alcohol.

But even if he did wake up in a padded cell… if his mind was functioning well enough to come up with a vision like Mary Roberts, he figured he'd be OK eventually.

She kept up with him easily, never loosing that tense readiness.

Nicholas led them to what seemed to be the main street of the town. It curved slightly ahead of them, opening into a small square of sorts beyond which John caught a glimpse of yet more dark and threatening-looking woods. Straight out of a horror movie. The whole place lay in moldy ruins, shutters and doors hanging off hinges, porches collapsed with weeds pushing up between their planks, glass broken in most of the windows.

The further in between the houses they walked, the colder it seemed, sunlight or no. And John couldn't shake the oppressive feeling that he was being watched. It itched between his shoulder blades and made him long for the cold weight of a gun in his hands – a rifle, his nine-mil, anything. Even just a knife.

He'd never seen a place as empty and desolate as this, and yet he couldn't shake the feeling he was walking into a battlefield. Empty-handed.

The General would not be impressed with this.

"Cold Oak, Wyoming," Mary said from beside him. He turned to her in surprise, but glad of the distraction.

"The town," she clarified. "It's called Cold Oak – one of the most haunted places on the continent. That's why they abandoned it."

John stared at her. "Haunted? You believe that?"

She tucked a strand of hair behind her right ear and looked at him grimly. "So will you," she promised.

But John's incredulous answer was blown away, along with his unnatural calm, when Nicholas pointed a shaky hand down an alleyway off to their left. A sudden breeze sprang up, bringing with it a familiar smell that would never, could never, leave him: rotting human flesh. He barely glanced at the twisted, mutilated bodies in the alley before turning away with the thunder of gunfire and the buzz of flies on dead bodies and Alex' dying screams in his ears.

Just one thought in his head. _This is real_. No dream, not even his worst nightmares, could have come up with this. _This is real_.

Slowly, he became aware he was gripping onto something: a wooden railing, running round the raised porch of a house, forehead resting against it. He was trembling, and he hated it. His hands were clenched so tight he wouldn't have been surprised to find the railing had cut his palms open.

A woman's hand rested on his upper arm, fingers applying gentle pressure. For a moment he thought it was Katie, but when he turned his head, he found himself looking into green eyes, not brown.

Mary Roberts. Right. You teleported, John, remember?

"Nam?" was all she said. He nodded.

"Come and sit down."

She led him over to the steps of the porch whose railing he'd just been abusing, and made him sit down. Then she joined him, her shoulder pressed against his, the warmth of her lending wordless comfort. The wood under him was damp and cold, seeping through his torn, frayed-out jeans. Wind in his hair, the press of his boot-tops against his legs under his jeans. Suddenly he was very, very aware of all the places Mary was touching him: shoulder, hip, thigh. Fingers brushing his knee as she twisted them in her lap.

The contact, he realised then, was as much for her as it was for him.

"They were torn apart," she said quietly. "I think their hearts were missing… not sure though."

He shuddered. "That's relevant how?" Why did he sound so _hoarse_?

"Sometimes, they way they died will tell you what did it."

"What kind of animal would do that?"

"No animal. A demon."

"A demon. With a pitchfork?"

The look she gave him was full of pity and sorrow and regret. "No. A demon. A supernatural entity that's pure evil. Kills for fun, wreaks death and destruction upon us puny mortals. Trapped in hell for the most part, but sometimes they get out. That's when the exorcist comes in."

"You're no Catholic priest," was all he could manage. It made her smile, though.

"Even they've started to forget. I'm a hunter."

"Of demons?"

"Among other things."

She was telling the truth. It was unbelievable, impossible, utterly mad. But she was telling the truth. There was nothing but sincerity, and a touch of concern, in her eyes. She was telling the truth.

"Demons?" Both John and Mary started. They'd forgotten about Nicholas, he'd been so quiet. He was staring at Mary now with wide, terrified eyes and a disbelieving look.

"Yes. Demons," she replied simply. "I know how it sounds. But… well, you saw them."

"This isn't happening," Nicholas whispered. "This can't be happening! I'm supposed to be at home, I have a paper to write, college! My girlfriend… this isn't happening."

"Nicholas…" Mary started out, getting up, but John caught her elbow. "Let him freak," he advised her softly. "Let him get it all out. Then we can work on leaving."

She looked down at him silently, that mix of pity and regret and sorrow back in her eyes. "We're not leaving, Johnny. We're here for a reason. It won't let us just waltz out the front door because we're bored."

"What reason?" he wanted to know, and then, "Johnny?"

Mary smiled. "Suits you."

John decided to ignore that. For now. Ghost towns filled with mutilated bodies were not the ideal setting for a flirtation.

"What reason?" he repeated.

She sighed. "It's a little… look. All I've been able to find is rumours. Stories, half-forgotten legends… I'm not sure how much is true and how much is speculation, you know?"

"Don't you ever just answer a question?"

Again, she smiled. It was rueful and awkward and slightly bitter and always that pitying undertone, like she was thinking, _I'm so sorry this is happening to you_, like he couldn't take care of himself.

"How old are you?" she asked.

He blinked, but answered. "Twenty-two. Why?"

Mary pushed her hands through her hair, shaking it loose from her ponytail. John got the impression that she did that a lot when she was nervous, or uncertain.

"So am I. So is Nicholas. So were those people in the alley. Anyone else we meet here will have been born in '54, too. That's a part of it. We've been chosen for something."

"I haven't been chosen for anything!" Nicholas cut in, still sounding hysterical. Mary sighed.

"Yes, you have. Let me ask you something: what can you do?"

Nicholas went from hysterical panic to pure terror in the space of a second. "What – what do you mean?"

"Your ability. Gift. Power. Whatever you call it. Don't be shy, Nicky, we've all got one, or we wouldn't be here. So what is it?"

"What's yours?" he demanded, still uncertain, afraid of their reactions. Apparently he hadn't considered that the question was as good as a confirmation that he did have some kind of ability. John held his breath, waiting for an answer. Was it possible…

Mary smiled sadly. "Persuasion. I can make people do things… but don't worry, it won't work on either of you."

Nicholas kept on staring at her for ages before admitting softly, "I see things. Get visions, premonitions."

"Could come in useful," John tossed in to help himself ignore the voice in his mind that was currently pointing out, _if you are crazy, at least now you know you've got company_.

"And you?" Mary asked him. He looked away. Crazy. He'd thought it had been a hallucination, but in the face of all that had happened since he'd woken up…

Still, he couldn't really talk about it, the terror he'd felt in those awful minutes, the certainty that he was about to die, the strange hot rush of power that had swept through him like an alien entity in his very blood before…

"I guess… I wasn't sure what it was. In 'Nam, there was this soldier… I threw him into a river. Without even touching him. Saved my life."

Mary nodded. "Telekinesis," she said. "Powerful."

"Powerful?" John repeated. "I've only ever used it the once!"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You really think that makes a difference?"

He stared at her helplessly.

"What's all this got to do with why we're here?" Nick demanded, sounding slightly calmer. Slightly.

"Everything," Mary replied. "I don't know if our abilities are why we're here, or if we have them because we were meant to come here, and I'm not sure that really matters. What does matter is that we can't use them. Not ever here. You have to remember that, no matter if – no matter what else happens, OK?"

Nick nodded slowly, but John had picked up on the look she'd thrown the boy. There was something about this she didn't want him to know.

The look he got, however, said plain as day, _I'll tell you later._

He felt oddly flattered she trusted him. The effortless way she'd taken control of this whole mess, the calm with which she'd faced that alleyway, had impressed him. Most of the girls he knew liked to think of themselves as ladies, sweet and demure and gentle. Mary Roberts, on the other hand, would probably be offended by the title.

Before Nick could ask anything else there came a shout from the other end of the street, echoing dimly between the houses.

"Halloooo? Can anybody hear me?"

"Survivors!" Nick exclaimed and headed off at a run.

"Nick, wait!" Mary shouted after him, but too late. She spun to follow him, but John's hand on her elbow stopped her. Now was as good a time as any.

"Why did you lie to him?"

"He'll be the first," she answered, her voice full of regret. "He's no fighter."

John stared at her, and for the first time that day, real fear twisted his gut. He could see it in her eyes, too.

"No fighter?" he repeated softly, as if to shout, to speak loudly, would make this nightmare even more real.

"We're meant to kill each other, Johnny," she said abruptly, fiercely, as if the words were wrenched out of her, as if she could not keep them inside herself another minute longer, and suddenly he felt sick to his stomach, afraid and alone, a little boy wanting his Dad. "That's what this is. We're meant to kill each other, and the last man standing takes it all. Once we turn our abilities against another human being, once we use them to kill, he's won."

"You guys!" came Nick's yell, and Mary pulled away from John and ran after him. He stayed there for a long moment, staring after her.

_We're meant to kill each other…_

This was 'Nam, all over again. John took a deep angry breath to steady himself. In, out. In, out.

_Pull yourself together, boy. This is no time to have a nervous breakdown._

He concentrated on that voice, that little detached voice of reason that helped him keep his sanity and focus on the job at hand. It sounded like his Dad.

He'd lived through Vietnam with his sanity… OK, so a little damaged, but still basically intact. He could do this, too.

_Get over it, John. If you can survive that, you can survive this. Besides. As far as Mom is concerned, you were supposed to be married to Adela Burton by now, and it hasn't happened. No way is any demon scarier than Caroline Stendahl-Winchester. She's the Antichrist._

Right. Crisis averted.

For now.

He took off after the other two at a run.

At the end of the street, where it petered out into a small square, Nick was bent over a blonde guy slumped against a wooden fence. He was trembling, nervous and pale, but seemed unhurt. Mary was kneeling by his die, but stood up and moved back from them when John arrived, shot him a warning glance.

Whether she was warning him about repeating their conversation or going too near the newcomer was anybody's guess. John decided both, to be on the safe side.

"Girl back there," the newcomer said in a strong Texas accent, gasping for breath, "neck broken." Out of breath and terrified.

"It's OK," Nick said, resting a hand on the guy's shoulder comfortingly. "We can sort this out… get out of here. You're not hurt, are you? And what's your name? I'm Nick. Those two are Mary and John."

"Justin," the guy rasped. "No, I'm not hurt. Just… God." He shuddered, and fell silent.

"Neck broken?" Mary murmured. John frowned at her, thinking it through. "If the mutilations – with the hearts missing, if they were demons, then a broken neck…"

Her mouth quirked into a pleased smile. "You catch on quick," she said softly. "Yeah, I think it was a human."

"There's someone else out there, then," John concluded. "We go have a look?" meaning the body.

Mary tilted her head at him. "You be OK?"

He felt a surge of embarrassment over his earlier moment of weakness. "Fine. Just took me by surprise back there."

"Then let's go," she said. "Nick, we'll just check out the body. You gonna come?"

Nick looked up and shook his head. "I'll stay, thanks for the offer." Was that sarcasm? Maybe the kid wasn't such a wet blanket after all. He certainly seemed to have calmed down in the face of Justin's obvious distress.

Mary took the lead, turning left along the fence and walking quickly in the direction Justin had waved in. John followed more slowly, and still thoughtful. Kill each other? But why? It didn't make sense. What would anyone – OK, so for the sake of argument… anything – gain from having a bunch of dead twenty-somethings lying around in a place like this?

"Up here, I think," Mary said, gesturing at a street up ahead that ran parallel to the one they'd walked up with Nick.

She wasn't hard to find, poor girl. In the middle of the street, her long hair spread out around her, the bright colours of the patterned dress she wore standing out starkly against the mud. Her head was twisted at such an unnatural angle, there was no question she was dead.

Mary crouched beside her. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, like it had been her fault the girl died, like she'd had some responsibility to protect her, and then froze as her hand brushed against the girl's neck. "John – she's still warm!"

But then – "Justin?"

"Must have been," she answered, and then they both started to run.

"Nick!" John yelled as they reached the corner, round it, there was the fence, mud clinging to his boots and hampering his progress, fuck he was out of practice at this, "Nick! Oh, god, Nick."

He'd been torn apart, like the others in the alleyway. Heart was missing, John was pretty damn sure.

Mary let out a little whimper of horror from behind him. He heard her slump against the fence and turned in time to catch her up, hug her, before she fell. She clung to him with desperate strength, and he knew then she was just as messed up about this as he was, trembling in his arms, as if the death of someone she'd actually known, however briefly, had opened the floodgates and shattered her self-control.

_Just a girl_, he thought to himself, holding her close. _Just a girl, who's never seen what I have_.

Justin was nowhere to be seen.

Mary swallowed her sobs at last and pushed away from John, scrubbing at her tear-stained face.

"We need to settle in somewhere and protect ourselves," she said hoarsely. "There's stuff you'll need to know if we wanna get out of this alive."

"Aren't you worried I'm gonna kill you?" John asked, genuinely curious.

The woman _laughed_ at him. God, she gathered herself quickly. He wondered how she'd come by this strength.

"I could ask you the same thing," she said.

His mouth curved in a bitter smile. "I think I've done enough killing for one lifetime… but that doesn't mean I can't defend myself."

Mary nodded slowly. "Well then. We're more likely to survive if we stick together. It wants us to kill each other, after all."

"You've mentioned an 'it' before," John observed. If that wasn't a hint…

But Mary didn't take it. "Later," she said. "When we're safe."

Sounded like a good plan.

Where Mary found the salt John had no idea, but he was more than happy to help her line the doorways and windows in the house they'd chosen to camp out in. Lighting a fire proved impossible: even if they'd had a lighter, there was no dry wood. The place didn't even have furniture to take apart.

He did find a poker in one of the back rooms, though, long as his arm, satisfyingly heavy. John swung it once or twice, experimentally.

Alex would have laughed his ass off at this little scene, but there was no denying the weight of the thing felt good in his hands. An improvised weapon was still better than none.

Mary's eyes lit up when she saw it. "Iron?"

"Uh, think so. Why?"

"Repels demons if it's pure, like the salt."

"So we're here because of a demon," John said, propping the poker against the wall and sitting down beside it, knees drawn up, shoulders pressed against the wood. Mary finished with the salt and came over to him, slid down the wall and copied his stance.

"Looks like."

"The one who killed those people in the alleyway?"

"Doubt it. I thought about it some, and that was probably some lower-level one… I think Justin was controlling it, that's how Nick died so quickly. Like my power: persuasion over demons."

"And why does he want us dead, exactly?"

"That's what it takes to win. I just can't figure out why he hasn't attacked us yet."

John frowned at the door. "If he believes this kill-each-other shtick…" he said slowly, "then he's waiting to play the winner. Thinks only one of us is gonna be alive come morning. I wouldn't want to fight two at once. Picking us off one by one is far safer."

"Mistake," Mary said. "If we were going to fight, I'd probably leave stronger than either of us are now."

It took a moment before her words sank in. "_You'd_ leave?" John repeated, a bit offended. "I was in the Marines, I'll have you know." She laughed at him, and he caught himself admiring the way the strip of sunlight she was sitting in struck golden glints in her green eyes.

Anyway.

"Back to this winning business," he said, a question, not a statement.

"Yes," Mary agreed. "Listen, I… like I said before, I'm not sure how much of this is speculation. But this whole situation, it's a competition. The Demon wants the winner, the strongest, for something."

Again the clench of fear in his gut. If they killed Justin in self-defense, would that make one of them the winner by default?

"What kind of something?" he asked softly. Any louder and she would have heard the tremor in his voice.

"I'm not sure," Mary said quietly. "Some stories say the winner becomes a demon himself, although the point of that is beyond me. This Demon, it's ancient, one of the most powerful ones. Some claim it set this up to choose a host for itself that he could possess for eternity, and never be driven out of. One hunter even told me 'the Chosen' – that's us – are destined to bring about the end of the world, the destruction of mankind. How, he didn't know."

"The apocalypse?" John muttered. He was pretty sure he looked, and sounded, kinda panicky by this point. "The Apocalypse! Sure, why not? Just stick us all in some abandoned ghost town and wait till we find the giant red lever marked _Pull here to end the world!_"

Mary burst out laughing again. He thought there was a slightly hysterical note to it.

"Glad I'm entertaining you," John snapped.

"Sorry," she said, still giggling. "It's just… yeah. Look. As long as we don't kill each other, the terms aren't fulfilled, OK? There can't be two winners."

John leaned back against the wall, eyes closed in something near despair. She made it sound so simple, but he knew it wouldn't be. Situations like these did strange things to people's minds. They hadn't known each other for longer than a few hours, and it would be so easy for a thing that had the power to bring them here in the first place to screw with their heads. Add Justin to the mix and they'd be at each other's throats in no time, he was sure.

No, there was only one way out of this mess. They had to leave. Escape the town as fast as possible. And find a way to stop the thing from bringing them back.

The easiest way to do that, he decided, was to remove it from the equation altogether.

"Can't we stop this thing?" he asked. "I mean, isn't there a way to, I don't know, banish it, exorcise it or whatever?"

"No point to an exorcism," Mary told him. "It's too powerful. Wouldn't be long before it crawled back out of Hell."

"Kill it, then," John said.

Mary gave a dry little laugh. "There isn't anything out there that can kill a demon. Oh, there are stories… magic knives, a gun built by Sam Colt, Excalibur of course… but they're just stories. Uncle Ben has never been able to find the slightest proof that any of them are real. The most damage you can do to a demon, apart from an exorcism, is a binding."

"What's a binding?" John asked.

"A spell that binds the demon to a certain object that's magical enough in its own right that the demon's powers are… negated. It's usually made of pure iron, and blessed by some saint or priest. Certain aspects of the spell are similar to creating Devil's Traps, that sort of thing."

"A trap, for demons."

"Basically, yeah. The more powerful the demon, the more powerful the trap needs to be, see? So objects like that are extremely hard to come by. Near impossible, in fact – mostly 'cause they're all so old."

"But they do exist, not like the weapons."

"Yeah, they do. Why?"

"Isn't there some way we could find one?"

Mary stared at him. "It's not gonna sit by and watch while we go looking for something to trap it with!"

"I doubt it's gonna kill us until it's got what it wanted from us," John pointed out reasonably. "It needs us. That's what all your stories had in common, right? It wants us _for something_. To do something. Especially if we make sure Justin's dead before we leave. There won't be anyone else then, will there? Besides, we've got these weird-ass _abilities_. That oughta help, right?"

"You're serious, aren't you?" Mary said softly. "You don't know jack about my world, and you're actually suggesting…"

John shrugged his shoulders. "You learn something new every day," he said drily. "Besides, I've just resigned my commission, so I don't have anything better to do."

Mary started to smile. "This is gonna take a while," she warned.

"I don't care. I'm not going to spend the rest of my life at the beck and call of some frickin' demon! Something that could do that to Nick, and those other kids… I've just left one war. I won't fight another one on the wrong side."

"Well. I suppose someone needs to look after you."

John laughed. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Just don't expect to drive my car."

"What model is it?"

"67 Chevy Impala. Uncle Jack gave it to me when I graduated high school."

John's eyes got wide. "67 Impala… marry me?"

Mary tossed her golden curls at him and grinned. "Certainly not. We've only just met."

He laughed at her.

"You're sure?" she said then. "About… about this?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so. I mean… what are our other options, right? We die, or we fight. I prefer to fight, personally."

"Better to die in battle than in bed," Mary said, hugging her knees.

"Why, you don't agree?"

"Actually I think I do. That's kinda the problem."

Wasn't much he could say to that. Either way, they'd just signed their own death warrants, John wasn't naïve enough to think otherwise. For a moment more, he sat still and unmoving next to her, and then thought, hell with it, and reached out, sliding his left arm over her shoulders and pulling her close. Mary stiffened up, and he thought she trembled a little, but then she relaxed, settled against him. Her hair smelled of oranges, and her fingers wrapped cold but firm around his right wrist.

The sunlight slanting through the broken shutters was slowly turning orange, darkening as the sun sank behind the trees that surrounded them.


	3. ii: hidden paths

**Hidden Paths**

"...salt wards off demons and spirits, Anasazi symbols against Wendigos, but fire keeps away just about anything corporeal anyway, including ghouls – they only show up in deserts, though, near cemeteries. And I can't believe I managed all that in one sentence."

Mary laughed at that. She was driving, of course, the Impala rumbling through the dark Wisconsin woods. John was reading by flashlight – or had been, till she decided to quiz him.

"What about hellhounds?"

"Salt, too. I think."

"It works. Gopher dust is better, but that's hoodoo, so hard to come by up north."

"Aren't hellhounds usually under the control of some kinda demon?"

"Usually, yeah. A dealmaker. They can get loose, though."

"Dealmaker… like in Dr. Faustus? Robert Johnson? _Went down to the crossroads_…"

_"…fell down on my knees_," Mary joined in, and they sang the whole thing through, laughing.

It was the little things like that that were important. That were keeping John Winchester sane. Three weeks since they'd escaped Cold Oak and the horror of it still sat deep in his bones.

It had taken all Mary's concentration and much of her strength to gain control over Justin's pet demon while the two men fought. John had come away with a knife-wound across his ribs, more bruises than he cared to count, and the sickening memory of the soft wet slide of his knife across Justin's throat.

He'd sworn when he got back from 'Nam that he'd never kill another human being again.

Most horrific of all was the trip to the actual borders of the town, being chased through the woods by the possessed corpses of the dead kids they'd found the day before, mutilated, twisted bodies stumbling tirelessly after them, the demons inside them twisting the very trees into weapons. The iron poker Mary had found and their own abilities had been the only things that kept them alive.

John had never felt such relief as when they finally reached the dirt track that marked the boundaries of Cold Oak and found that the demons were unable to cross it.

They'd waited out the night hidden under an outcrop of stone in the hills by the road, waking from fitful sleep the next morning cold, battered and bleeding, and utterly exhausted, both physically and mentally. It was a feeling John knew far too well – but on the other hand, that had probably saved them in the end. Mary had held up better than he'd feared, but in terms of pure stamina, he still had the edge on her.

The hospital staff in the nearest town had been sympathetic and helpful towards the young couple who'd been mugged when their car broke down. John had never in his life told the police such a pack of lies as he had that day. He'd also seen a glimpse of Mary's ability – she'd used it on one of the doctors who hadn't believed their story. The way her voice had deepened and echoed as she told him to _leave us alone, and forget about it,_ the way the guy's eyes had glazed over as she spoke, had been almost as disturbing to John as the demons.

He wondered if that's what Mary had thought when she saw him fling that demon away with nothing more than a look when it had –

Not going there.

The day after they got out of hospital, Mary's cousin Mark had arrived. He'd been none too trusting of John, and furious at his cousin, but after a fight or two John had stayed well away from, Mark had finally given in and let them leave without telling his father what they were up to.

"Uncle Ben would pack you off home to Kansas and expect me to sit quietly in a corner and learn to knit while he takes care of it all," Mary had told John. "Quite apart from the fact that it's grossly unfair, I'm not even sure if he could do it. If anyone's going to defeat this demon, I think it has to be us."

"How did you know I was from Kansas?" he asked, surprised. She blinked and then grinned. "I didn't. I was just referring to _Wizard of Oz_."

John fought back a laugh. His side still hurt too much for that.

The only person he'd called was Deacon, and had relegated to his worried, exasperated friend the unenviable task of telling Katie and Allison that yes, he was fine, and no, he wouldn't be coming home just yet.

The last person John had any intention of calling was his Dad. The General would have had the entire Marine Corps out combing the state of Wyoming for him before the end of the phone call. He couldn't afford that.

_Listen, Dad, I'm sorry, but, uh… there's some ancient demon after me because it wants me to bring about the Apocalypse, or something, and… oh, the girl? Name's Mary. We're supposed to kill each other. By the way, did I tell you already I resigned my commission?_

That'd go over _real _well.

So after all the organisational matters had been dealt with, they'd hit the road.

Well. Once John had stopped admiring the Impala, anyway.

Now they were cutting across Wisconsin, headed for Minneapolis. An old friend of Mary's father lived there who might be able to point them in the direction of someone who might know something about a Key, a focus point for the binding spell that could trap The Demon.

"Awful lot of mights and maybes," John had observed.

"Welcome to my life," Mary had said drily. "You gotta remember how old this stuff is. This demon that wants us, it's been around for thousands of years. Information tends to get lost over time like that."

John pulled himself out of those bloodstained memories with a jerk, and had just started to read again when Mary slammed the brakes on.

"Holy crap!"

She could swear like a trooper when she wanted to. John was pretty sure his sister Katie had trouble with 'damn'.

Then he looked out the windshield, and saw the body lying in the middle of the road.

"Jesus, where did he come from?"

"Johnny, I swear the road was empty a minute ago."

John put the book down slowly and got out of the car. He switched the flashlight from right hand to left and pulled his gun out of his jeans, holding on the man as he moved in front of the Impala. Mary came up behind him warily.

The guy was in his thirties, maybe, and gave a low groan as they drew nearer. His eyes flickered open, seeming to glow in the headlights as he looked up at them.

"Help me…"

"OK," Mary said softly, coming forwards. "OK. Tell us what happened to you."

"Mary," John protested, "don't get-"

Too late. She turned back to glare at him and Roadkill Guy moved faster than John's eyes could follow, catching hold of her as he stood up, pulling her flush against his chest and yanking her head back by her hair, exposing her throat, and _oh my god, was that a second set of teeth?_

John didn't bother with the gun. He dropped all his inner defences and simply lashed out, feeling the now-familiar surge of heat in his veins. It twisted inside him like an alien entity clawing at his guts, but finally went where he wanted it to, tearing the guy away from Mary, flinging him across the road and leaving John with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

Mary staggered when the guy was wrenched away from her, stumbling back until John caught her, arm around her shoulders, holding her against his chest.

He was shaking, she realised.

"I'm guessing he's not human," he said unsteadily as the guy… no, creature… staggered to its feet. It looked murderous.

"Can you hold it still?" Mary asked, and ducked under his arm without waiting for an answer. She pulled a machete out of the trunk and then rejoined John. He looked pale, face set with effort.

"Vampire," she said. "Only way to kill them is decapitation."

"No stakes?"

"No stakes. No garlic, either. The bloodlust is true, though. Hence the teeth."

John really looked sick now. "You mean it would have…"

"Drunk her dry," the thing cut in harshly, red-faced with the effort of struggling against John's hold on it. "Lapped up every last drop of her warm sweet blood, and then come for yours, boy."

"I'd advise you to choose your victims a little more carefully from now on," Mary said. "But you won't get the chance."

The Impala's headlights glinted along the machete's razor-sharp blade as she turned it, this way and that, a silent promise.

The vampire sneered at her. "I will be avenged," it said. "They will destroy you both, hunter."

It spat the word at her like an insult, and John watched silently as the blade swept up and back in a long deadly arc.

He let the body collapse on the ground in a bloody heap and gave a sigh of relief as the pounding heat in his veins retreated the minute he let go of his power.

Then they had to drag the body off the road.

"Sunlight," he said, using a stick to roll the head into the ditch. "What about sunlight?"

"Hurts 'em, but they don't spontaneously combust," Mary replied. "We should burn the body, really."

John shook his head. "Don't have time. It talked about others, remember?"

"Vampires move in groups of up to eight or ten," Mary told him. "Like a pack of wolves. They mate for life, too."

"Puts a whole new spin on 'till death do us part'," John observed. Mary chuckled, and came over to stand beside him. She didn't touch him, though. She rarely had, since they left Wyoming.

"What the police will think when they find him," she said. "Two sets of teeth!"

"The newspapers will be full of the serial killer who decapitates his victims, not the teeth," John predicted.

"It wouldn't really be that far off, would it? Come on, let's get to town."

"Ladies first," John teased. "Seeing as you're driving."

Mary smirked. "If you bring me breakfast in bed tomorrow morning I _might_ let you have a go."

"I'm gonna need something a little more definite than _might_ in exchange for all that effort," John said as they got in the car.

"First things first," Mary answered. "What's our last name this week?"

"Fogerty," John answered.

"I hate CCR," she grumbled.

"Tough. You were the one who insisted on fake names."

"We're Chosen to destroy the world, Johnny, remember? There are hunters out there who might take offense at that."

Well, that ruined the mood.

At least he was right about the news reports. They were full of the decapitated body, and three disappearances from the week before, and all sorts of ridiculous theories about another Ed Gein.

"The whole town's in a panic," John observed as they sat down to breakfast.

"Wouldn't you be?" Mary asked. "I asked around this morning. Three teenagers have disappeared over the last week or so. Let's hurry up and get out there, see if we can pick up some kinda trail."

John frowned at her. "And Minneapolis?"

Mary took a gulp of coffee and then, seeing the doubtful look he was giving her, set her mug down with a loud _thunk_.

"I know. And I know what we're doing is important. But those disappearances? The cops will make a connection between them and our vampire. And if they find the nest, they'll be slaughtered. People are dying, John. And we have the power – the knowledge – to stop it. If that means getting distracted, delaying our quest… it's a price I'm willing to pay."

"We leave this too long, we might find it's too late," John told her without thinking. She must have heard something in his voice, because her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"What do you mean, too late?"

"Nothing," John said harshly.

Mary was having none of it. She reached across the table and grabbed a handful of his shirt, yanking him forwards. The other diners were giving them looks from scandalised to indulgent and amused, but Mary never took her eyes off John's, voice low and thrumming with anger when she spoke.

"Listen, Winchester. Just because I can't 'order' you to do anything, or even just _kill_ you for fear of bringing about Judgment Day, doesn't mean I'll hesitate to leave your sorry ass in this dump if you're not straight with me. I can't afford to take you along _anywhere_ if I can't trust you. We clear?"

In spite of himself, John smiled. "Yes, ma'am," he said softly.

She searched his face intently for a hint of mockery, but didn't find any. He just sat there, rim of the table digging painfully into his ribs, and watched her watch him, the way her eyes glinted when the light hit them and the arch of her eyebrows –

-and just as he was about to lean in and kiss her, she pulled away.

"So what's worrying you?"

Not that he was surprised. They'd made love only once, the night they finally got out of the hospital in Wyoming. It had been a comfort, an affirmation of life, the only thing they had had between them to hold the darkness at bay and stave off the nightmares.

And since then she'd avoided having any physical contact with him whatsoever.

The next morning, Mark had arrived and then they were leaving and that was that. Still, he was a little… puzzled. It wasn't as though they'd spent the last weeks discovering that, actually, this wasn't going to work because they hated each other.

The thought that there might already be someone she was with was not one he really wanted to entertain.

"Johnny!"

John grimaced at the return to subject. He dropped his eyes to the table and stabbed an unoffending slice of bacon rather savagely while he tried to work out just what to say.

"Last night," he began, "in the woods… when I used – when I pulled that thing away from you, it felt – I mean, it's always felt like that, not that I've used it much, but since Cold Oak it's getting stronger. It's as if it has a mind of its own, see. My ability, I mean. Like it knows that there's something I should be using it for, and it's not tossing vampires around. Every time I use it, it's harder to control."

Mary was silent for a long while, just watching him. Then she said, "You killed Justin."

"I remember," John cut in drily.

"Silence in the cheap seats," she ordered. "You killed Justin. That makes you next in line for the crown. Makes you the designated heir. All you'd have to do is kill me."

"Never happen," John said without thinking.

She smiled. "Thank you. But I think – I think we both need to be more careful about using them. Maybe it's like being possessed; maybe they _do_ know what we're meant to be using them for. We'll need to hide who we are from most of the hunters we meet anyway. The sooner we stop using them, the better."

"OK then. So what about these vampires?"

He wasn't entirely reassured, but _no way_ would he let her see that. Better to leave it alone. She was probably right, anyway.

Thing was, he wasn't sure how much use he was going to be without his ability.

Mary didn't seem to have any doubts, though. They headed along the road as if they were leaving town again till they came to the 'crime scene' and got out to talk to the cops. One young deputy in particular was more than happy to talk to them… if that was what it took for Mary to stand still long enough for him to peer down the front of her shirt.

John was having a hard time keeping himself from hitting the little git. If Mary minded, she didn't let on.

"So… I mean, where around here could some serial killer possibly be hiding?" she asked in her most vapid, breathlessly admiring voice. "I mean, everyone my cousin and I have met around here have been so _lovely…"_

"Oh, there's places, ma'am, there's places," the deputy said in his most mysteriously important tones. "The Cooper place, that's been abandoned for years. Who knows what's going on up there. Or there are caves in the woods, you know, up in the hills."

He waved a hand in the direction of the hills in question, off to the east of where they were standing. The gesture, unfortunately for him, was large enough that it did not go unnoticed by his superiors.

"Tommy! Stop makin' an eejit of yerself and send those people back to town, now!"

John decided he liked the Sheriff.

When they got back in the car, Mary sat for a moment with her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles had gone white. John made to reach out to her, but thought better of it. He wasn't sure she'd want him to touch her.

"I hate that," she said at last, helplessly.

"What?" he asked, voice low and comforting. He still couldn't tell if she was upset or angry.

"That!" she exclaimed, jerking upright and waving a hand through the windscreen at the crime scene.

Definitely angry.

She revved the engine furiously and slammed _Zeppelin III_ into the tape deck, and John winced. _Immigrant Song_ was Mary's angry music, he'd found that out fairly quickly.

Once the song was through, however, she turned the volume back down and said quite calmly, "It'll be the Cooper place he talked about. They won't use the caves. Too far away from potential victims, and above all too inconvenient. They want someplace where they can… store… the victims. Someplace they can't get out of. And I'm guessing five fangs."

John bit back an inward groan. The whys and wherefores of her all conclusions had just completely escaped him. One day, maybe, all this would came to him as easy as breathing, but until then, he was pretty much dependant on Mary for all the information.

He hated being dependant on people.

"Why only five?"

"If the nest were bigger than six, there would have been more disappearances. Listen, we need to find a funeral home."

"Now you've lost me."

She chuckled. "Sorry. For dead man's blood. They feed off the living, see? Dead man's blood is poison to them, a sedative. Indigestible, you might say."

"You wanna force-feed them blood?"

"Dipping a knife in it will do the trick."

"Oh, OK then."

"Is this freaking you out?"

"A little, yeah."

"Any way I can help with that?"

He sighed. "I doubt it. So we… what, find the Cooper place, head up there, and…"

"Don't think you're getting away with that. I know all about evading uncomfortable subjects."

"Right. So what were you so mad about just now?"

"I think we should wait till morning to looking for them. They'll be more vulnerable in the daylight."

He burst out laughing. She grinned.

"So what's the actual plan?" John wanted to know. "We can't just saunter up to the front door and ask them to hand over the prisoners," infusing his voice with as much sarcasm as possible.

"Well, no," Mary agreed. "We'll have to take a window."

"You're kidding," John said in disbelief.

She looked across at him. "About the window?"

"You want to saunter in there in broad daylight and start picking locks, is that it? You're talking about a pitched battle. On their turf. And they have the advantage of numbers."

"Got any better plans?" Mary asked. "And I'm serious. There's no way to trap them. Salt, iron, Devil's Traps… none of them work. Locking them in isn't an option, they're too strong. I can hide our scent after we leave, but that's all. And if we wait for them to leave before we get the victims out, we'll just be putting someone else in danger. We don't have the time to hunt them down one by one. So. How would you do it?"

John sat staring out the window for a long while, thinking it over. He didn't notice the way she was watching him out of the corner of her eyes.

Did he know how sexy that look was, that intense, concentrated gaze? Mary's best friend (and Mark's wife) Colleen would never believe she'd been living with this man for three weeks _without_ jumping his bones. He was always there, always with her, in her space, never backing away. And she was always hyper-aware of his presence. She _wanted_ him there. It scared her and attracted her at the same time.

But there was the matter of this Allison girl he'd mentioned on the phone to his friend. And Mary refused to ruin his life any more than she already had.

The fact that he wouldn't have a life anymore if it weren't for her didn't cross her mind.

"Fire won't hurt them?" John asked at last.

"Not permanently," Mary replied.

"But it'll drive 'em out of the house, right? Injure them just enough to give us an edge. Add in the sunlight…"

"Genius," Mary said happily. "We'll need alcohol."

She took care of that part. He, on the other hand, spent the afternoon creeping round a funeral home. It kinda worried him that he found it as exhilarating as he did. Was this job _supposed_ to be fun?

Mary, it seemed, hadn't enjoyed herself as much. She was sitting at the motel room table, glaring at the cheap whiskey bottles and whetting a knife, when John got back. He wondered who she was imagining using it on.

"Everything go OK?"

"No."

"Ah."

"It's just –" and then she stopped.

"Yeah?"

She tilted her head off to one side in a quick little jerk. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

He grimaced. "It's kinda ridiculous."

"Try me."

"Has it occurred to you yet that I'm… sorta dependant on you for everything about this?"

"Oh. Oh, I see. Yeah, I'd hate that too. Tell you what. When we've been to Minneapolis and seen Abe, we'll go down to Connecticut and put you through boot camp at Mark's."

In spite of himself, John laughed. "That'll help?"

"We probably should have done that first thing. I know you can take care of yourself, but you're right, you do need a more intensive crash course in demonology. I'm sorry."

"I was just as eager to take off as you were," he reminded her. After leaving the hospital, getting as far away from Wyoming as they could had been the foremost thing on both their minds, leaving little room for anything else. "What about you?"

He meant their little deal. Mary flipped the knife so that it stuck, quivering, in the table-top and sat up straight.

"Men," she said. John blinked. "Not you. All the others. The ones who never actually see my face because they're too busy trying to peer down my shirt. The ones who think I'd be more than happy to go home with them if they just look at me the right way. The ones who treat me like an airhead because I'm blonde. Makes me want to scream. Or castrate them. I haven't decided yet."

The words rushed out of her in a quick angry torrent, and then she fell silent. Somehow he knew his response was important to her for some reason.

"So I _should_ have hit the deputy this morning?"

She tossed her hair back and laughed.

"Yes please. And then thank your mother for me."

John almost choked on that. "Not likely. It's my sister's fault. Our mother is the Antichrist. Even Dad says so."

Mary's laugh rang out again. "I hope they're not still married, then."

"Divorced when I was eight. Katie was six. Only reason it lasted that long was because the General was away so often. Korea, places like that."

Time to take the plunge, Mary decided. "So who's Allison?" The sixteen-year-old girl inside her wanted to bite her lip as she waited for the answer.

"My stepmother," John answered. Then he blinked. "How'd you know about her?"

Mary shrugged. "I overheard your phone call at the hospital," she said.

Didn't look even remotely ashamed of herself. Quite the contrary.

John leaned over the table in sudden, dawning understanding. "Did you think… is that why you haven't-"

"Why I haven't spent every night since we left Wyoming in your bed?" Mary interrupted, incredulous.

"We practically dragged each other out of those woods," John reminded her. "Then we had sex, and you've barely touched me since. In _any_ way, for _any_ reason."

"These aren't exactly ideal circumstances to be starting a… to be starting anything in," Mary said harshly.

"And for all we know, we're stuck with these circumstances for the rest of our lives," John said.

Mary started to say something, stopped, and then tried again. "Look. I'm… kinda high-maintenance. Not in the big-houses-in-the-country-and-a-new-dress-every-Friday way either."

"Could never stand girls like that," John told her, patience beginning to wear thin. "What's really the matter?"

Mary flung herself to her feet, utterly exasperated. "No one _chooses_ this life, dammit!" she yelled.

"Well, what about you?" John was suddenly just as angry as she was. Did she really think he didn't know what he was getting into? Did she really think he wasn't capable of making his own decisions?

She whipped back round to face him. "My father was a hunter. He and Mom were killed when I was fourteen."

"I'm sorry."

"Not the point."

"True. And too fucking late anyway. You're stuck with me. I _didn't_ choose this life, remember? Some demon did it for me, some kinda thing that wants me to destroy the whole world! Not forgetting the fucking abilities! I can move things across a room without even looking at them, what kind of other life do you think I really have a chance at right now? And don't you fucking dare apologise. You're the only reason I'm still alive."

She just stood there, looking at him. Waiting. For him to leave? Too bad.

"So. As for starting something? Tell me now you don't want to, and it'll never come up again. I swear. But tell me _you don't want to_, not that _it's not a good idea_. The ball's in your court."

It was a challenge, and he knew it. For a moment she simply stood there, watching him still, green-gold fire dancing in her eyes. Then, without warning, something snapped inside her. He could see it in those eyes, as if he'd pushed her too far, got too close to her, even in barely a month, and she just couldn't avoid it - avoid him - any longer. Mary took a quick step forward and pushed him back into the chair, folding herself into his lap, her mouth meeting his in a rush of confusion-anger-desperation-longing and above all passion, tying them together, wrapping them up in each other.

Her warm weight in his lap, hands exploring the lines and hollows of his chest and shoulders, thigh firm and muscled under his palm, mouth tasting of candy. Or was that just her?

"You're going to regret this," she breathed between kisses and then gasped when his warm hands wound their way under her shirt and _up_.

Cool air on her skin, the faint scent of his aftershave, shiver running down his arms as she traced his tattoo with the pad of her thumb, hair thick and silky in her hands.

"Never," he answered, a whispered promise against the side of her neck as she flattened her palm over his heartbeat, slow delight humming in her throat.

Next morning, he brought her breakfast in bed, and she let him drive the Impala up to the Cooper place.

"Sure they'll be asleep?" John said softly, eyeing the long stretch of open grass between the tree line they were crouching in and the old farmhouse.

"Yeah. They're not like demons, tireless, untouchable. They need sleep like we do."

"OK then. Here goes."

Mary caught his sleeve as he started forwards. "Remember. Don't stab them unless you have to. Go straight for the neck."

"I'll remember," he promised.

Judging by the silence in the house, no one had seen them cross the lawn. They dipped the machetes in dead man's blood, hid the Molotovs by the back door, and slipped inside.

The door creaked alarmingly, but other than that, there was no sound.

The house was dim and dirty. Jewellery, clothes and even cash lay in piles on the dilapidated sofa.

"They loot their victims?" John breathed.

"Easy money," Mary whispered back. "Looks like the people are upstairs."

John looked round the living room again and spotted the basement door opposite him, in the kitchen. "Vampires down there?" he murmured, gesturing with the knife.

Mary's grin was savage. "We can stand in front of the trapdoors outside and pick 'em off one by one."

John grinned back. He couldn't remember ever feeling this alive, practically high on adrenaline. Vietnam, and then Cold Oak, had been terrifying, always an inch away from death, unable to do anything but survive. This, on the other hand, was a _rush_.

Great. Now he was turning into an adrenaline junkie. Not that it didn't make a nice change from the terror-induced sort, but still.

Up the stairs, one slow silent trembling step at a time, Mary was biting the left corner of her bottom lip and her eyes were shining, machete hanging loose and ready by her thigh. Corridor at the top was long and dark, windows boarded up. John froze in horror when the top ste creaked alarmingly, but there was no other sound throughout the house.

The master bedroom was locked and barricaded with a chest of drawers. Moving it was a pretty awkward undertaking, wincing at every squeak, barely daring to breathe, machetes on the floor beside them and that was the worst part as far as John was concerned, the weapon out of his hands for far too long. Then Mary knelt in front of the door and picked the lock. Her hands were perfectly, utterly steady.

"You're gonna have to teach me how to do that," John murmured.

"Get Mark to do it," she whispered. "He taught me."

The three kids from the news report, two guys and a girl, were in the room, huddled together in the far corner, looking pale, terrified, and hopeless. John felt a rush of pity when he saw them; the oldest was maybe eighteen.

But there was another occupant. An older guy in his forties, dressed like a farmhand. He was paler than the kids, sweating, holding a bloodstained cloth against the side of his neck.

They'd fed off him.

His eyes flickered open as Mary shushed the kids, fixing on John, then moving to the machete he held.

"You killed that fang last night?" he asked softly. "They thought it was me. Been tracking them for a couple months now."

"Sorry," John said, equally soft, understanding at once. "Can you walk? We gotta go."

Everyone nodded. John helped the other hunter up. The girl was trembling, face streaked with tearstains.

"They're – they're not-"

"We know what they are," Mary soothed her. "Just go, OK? Quiet as you can, straight down the stairs and out the back door. Run for the road."

"Don't stop for anything," John added. "Go on, get out!"

They crept down the stairs in single file, Mary first, John last, supporting the other hunter. Along the corridor, through the kitchen, quiet as possible, all his senses on hight alert, the kids starting to run unsteadily as soon as they were outside, bolting for the treeline. John saw Mary reaching for the Molotovs, and then the basement door opened behind him and he caught a glimpse of a girl with long blonde hair in the doorway.

Then he just moved, no thinking involved, no time for it, action first consequences later, shoving the older hunter at Mary as she reappeared in the doorway and swinging the machete up as the vampire opened its mouth to scream, teeth already descending, and then the wet thud of the body hitting the floor and voices drifting up the basement steps.

Mary tossed him the Molotovs as he came out of the door and then ran for the trapdoors to the basement at the side of the house, not once lookig back, her trust in him apparent in every movement. The other hunter followed her. John lit and flung the Molotovs into the kitchen and watched as they flared up, fire racing across the floor, a vampire in the basement doorway staggering back with a shriek of anger and horror.

John ran after Mary.

Two vampires were dead. He arrived in time to kill the fourth, and Mary got the last one again.

Like Whack-a-Mole, only bloodier.

They heaved the bodies back into the basement, crashed the trapdoors shut, and got away from the house.

"Wow," John said softly when they reached the treeline, staring back at their handiwork. He felt oddly hollow now it was all over – but the grin on Mary's face was pure infectious triumph.

"Yeah," she agreed.

"I guess I owe you kids a favour or two," the other hunter said ruefully. He was sitting against a tree behind them, still pressing a hand against his neck. "Embarrassing. Although it is kinda rude of you to be snakin' someone else's case."

"Pure coincidence," Mary said. "We were supposed to be yesterday's dinner."

He laughed out loud. "Well. I'm Dan Elkins. And you two…"

John took the proffered hand and introduced them both, deliberately dropping their last names. But Dan still frowned at Mary. "Mary… Mary Roberts? Lisa Colt's daughter? Your uncle's been tearing the whole blessed U. S. of A. apart looking for you, girl."

Mary grimaced. "Too much to hope he'd understand this, I guess."

Dan snorted. "Ben's a stubborn sonovabitch," he said. "What is _this_, exactly?" shooting a look at John, who was following the exchange in silent surprise.

"My business," Mary said sharply.

But Dan smiled. "Girl," he said, "I owe you and your – friend, my life. I won't tell on you. I did hear you were askin' around about Cold Oak some months back, though?"

"What about it?" John cut in, and immediately cursed himself for doing so. But if this guy knew something that could help them…

Mary glared at him. Dan was looking between them both with eyes gone wide. "I've heard a thing or two from Abe Rosenbaum," he admitted slowly. "Is it true? Are you… are you the Chosen?"

Mary was still glaring at him. How long could she keep that up?

On the other hand, she was pretty adorable when angry.

John turned back to Dan with a shrug and a sigh. "That's kinda the question," he said. "We don't really know anything about… about what it wants from us."

Dan nodded slowly. "I'm guessing you were headed for Abe's place anyway? I'll tag along. Who knows, I might be able to help you."

"Why would you?" Mary asked, still suspicious. John rolled his eyes at her. Dan got to his feet and glared back at her for the first time. "Because, like I said, I owe you my life. I don't take that kinda debt lightly. But I might need a doc first."

Mary caved at last. "We'll drive you. Car's back that way."


	4. iii: see it spin

_**AN:** The story of Azazel is basically true. So is the date of Sam Colt's voyage to England and return to Connecticut. But I fiddled a bit, ignored some things, and generally didn't research too much in case it contradicted my plans for the story._

**See it Spin**

Abraham Rosenbaum lived, somewhat to John's surprise, in an apartment bang in the middle of Minneapolis. He'd been expecting something smaller, out of the way, and probably old.

The penthouse he was currently standing in was none of those things.

It was spacious, brightly lit, clearly expensive and almost fanatically clean. Abe Rosenbaum himself was in his sixties, clean-shaven, wearing a suit for God's sake. Caroline Stendahl-Winchester herself would have welcomed this man to one of her functions with open arms, and John's mother could spot 'strange' people at two hundred yards, and cut them dead at 195.

"Well," Abe said. "I'm embarrassed for you, Daniel. First you let two vampires get the drop on you, and then you have to be rescued by a couple of kids. One of whom happens to be Ned and Lisa Roberts' daughter. Call yourself a hunter?"

Dan Elkins didn't bother answering – in words.

Mary was perched on one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter, one leg swinging in absent circles, a cup of coffee in her hand. "Abe," she said, and John wondered if the other man could hear the bite of impatience in her voice, "Abe, not that this isn't entertaining" – Dan shot her a baleful glare – "but could it possibly wait? John and I have a couple questions, and then we'll be out of your hair."

Abe didn't look convinced.

"No, you won't," he said. "Mostly because answering your 'couple questions' is going to take much longer than a few minutes. Not to mention the fact that your uncle is going out of his mind with worry over you, young lady, and the least you could do is call him personally."

Mary glared at him. "No. Not yet. I want to know what's going on, dammit! I'm sick of blundering around in the dark researching legends that no one really remembers and hoping to God my new-found ability to make anyone in the world do what I want them to isn't going to kill me! I'm sick of living in limbo, Abe. _I want answers_."

Abe sighed. "I see patience still hasn't made it into your collection of virtues, Marianna."

"Jesus, Abe. What next, you'll middle-name me too? Not even Uncle Ben stoops to that."

"If you can't manage to be civil, it can all wait till morning," Abe said calmly. "By the way, how many of the spare bedrooms am I going to need aired?"

Mary spluttered. John jumped. "Well – we –"

"We'll be –"

"Just two then," Abe said.

Mary actually blushed. John was pretty sure Abe had only asked the question to distract her, and filed away the technique for later use. That made three ways to deal with Mary when angry: start a fight, make her laugh, or blindside her.

Abe sauntered off in the direction of the spare bedrooms; Dan was fiddling around in the kitchen. Mary caught John's eye and shrugged slightly. Did she look embarrassed?

"Listen, uh..."

"I can sleep on the couch," he offered. She rolled her eyes at him. "Only if I ever hear you repeating that name."

"What, Marianna?"

She _flinched_.

"What's your middle one?"

"Victoria."

"Marianna Victoria... ouch."

"Discontinued at the age of three, much to my mother's despair. Couldn't pronounce it."

He choked with suppressed mirth.

"What about yours, Johnny?"

"Edward, if you must know. After my mother's father."

"Very distinguished."

"But not as pretentious as yours."

"Couch is over there."

"I thought we already had this argument?"

"When you're done flirting with each other," Abe said. Didn't the man have any other setting but calm and controlled? "Go bring your stuff in. First door on the left." He pointed along the corridor in question.

Thank God there was an elevator.

When they got back, dragging their bags with them, Abe was piling books on the kitchen counter – presumably ones they were going to need. The spare bedroom turned out to be as spacious and obsessively neat as the rest of the penthouse. Mary made to toss her bag onto the bed and then stopped.

"Which side do you want?"

John had dropped his bag on a chair against the wall, and looked up at her in surprise. "Oh. Uh... the door?"

"I'm not picky."

And then, after a beat, "Look. I've never really had... this isn't exactly something I..."

"Me either," he said. Which wasn't entirely true, because there had been a girl, once, but on the other hand, six months at the end of high school wasn't much in the way of experience of real, grown-up relationships. He suspected Mary had never even made it that far, though.

"Really?" She didn't believe him.

"Really," he said. Trust. That was inherent to a relationship, right? And you'd think he'd done enough, even in barely a month, to prove to her that she could trust him.

Mary pushed her hands through her hair, and smiled. "OK then. I warn you, though. I've been making an effort to be tidy, but from now on, you're going to have to put up with a minimum of bathroom space."

"I think I can manage," John said, smiling.

There was a rap on the door. "Hurry up, you two. The sooner we start, the better."

"Doesn't he ever get annoyed, or anything?" John asked as soon as Abe had moved away. Mary scrunched her nose adorably and laughed. "Not that I've ever seen. Come on."

She laced her fingers through his and tugged him out of the room.

"First things first," Abe said once the four of them were settled in the living room. "What do these two know about your family, Mary?"

"You've gotta be kidding me," Mary groaned. "You can't seriously think that has anything to do with this!"

"How can you not?" Abe demanded.

"Because it's just a story! It's not real, Abe!"

"For a hunter, you're far too rational, my girl," Abe said sharply. "Some things need to be taken on faith. You think any of those exorcisms you know would work if you didn't believe they did? A Demon is planning to take over the world, or destroy humanity, or something similar, you're bang in the middle of it and you can still say _it's just a story_ with a perfectly straight face?"

"Uncle Ben never found anything to prove it," Mary said harshly. "And Mom – Mom never said a word to me. Never even hinted that it was anything more than a bedtime story."

"You were still a child when she died," Abe pointed out more gently.

Mary sighed, turned away, caught John's eye. He realised she was being stubborn about this because she didn't _want_ to believe it, whatever it was, not because she really thought it improbable.

"Can't be that bad," he said.

Mary pushed her hands through her hair again. When she spoke she spoke to John alone, as though they were sitting in the Impala rumbling down some anonymous highway, ignoring Abe and Dan.

"If any of this were true, it would probably make this whole mess my fault," she admitted quietly.

"Remember what I told you in Wisconsin?" he asked. "You should, it was only four days ago."

He meant their fight, about choices and acceptance and leaving each other. Why wouldn't she believe him?

But then he remembered the mess he'd been when he got home from 'Nam. They really weren't so different, he and Mary.

She was smiling at him wistfully.

"OK then. My mother's maiden name was Colt."

"As in..."

"The Samuel Colt. Yes. I'm his last living descendant."

"Wow. But what does Colt have to do with demons?"

"Well. According to my mother's stories, when Sam Colt was a boy, he lived, and worked, for a time in Glastonbury, Connecticut. While he was there, he met a man one day by the river who made friends with the boy, and eventually told him that he had the power to grant him anything he wanted – for a price. When Colt asked what the price was, the stranger replied that that depended on what he asked for.

By now Colt was pretty sure the meeting was a set-up, a prank arranged by his friends. And so he told the man without hesitation that he wanted to be the greatest, the best gun-maker that ever lived."

John was fascinated. "And the price?" he asked.

"The man asked only one thing of him. The first functioning gun Colt would build."

"Like in the fairy tales, when they trade their firstborn," Dan said. "I never knew any of this! I thought the guy was just a hunter."

"I've never exactly gone around shouting it off all the rooftops," Mary said drily.

"The story," John said. "What happened next?"

Mary took up the tale again. The three men couldn't help but notice that she told it as though she'd memorised the precise wording of the story – as if the very phrases themselves were important.

"Well. When Colt had agreed to the price asked, they shook on their agreement. And as the man turned away, Colt thought he saw his eyes shine yellow. But he was still a boy, and he thought it all a prank, and so he accepted the instructions the man left him for building this gun, and thought no more of it." She paused and took a sip of now lukewarm coffee.

"And then his friends put him straight about the prank?" Dan wanted to know.

"They did. And the older Colt got, the more he began to suspect he had made a terrible mistake that day. The instructions he had been given worried him in particular, scared him, even, for they held a meaning he soon came to realise he could not understand, scientist and inventor that he was."

"I'm gonna take a wild guess and say they were magic of some sort," John said.

"Exactly. How Colt found out exactly what they were and became a hunter isn't known. Likely he'd discovered what he needed in England. He returned to Connecticut in 1835 to uphold his side of the deal he'd made over a decade ago... or so the Demon thought. But then the night came, the night it had determined would be the one Sam Colt would have to fulfil their bargain, and when the Demon came to Colt to retrieve his weapon, Colt trapped him, and exorcised him, and laid wards to prevent him from ever escaping Hell."

Mary paused for more coffee. "But he had broken a deal, reneged on a contract. And so, the Demon cursed him. Swore that one day, one of Samuel Colt's blood would fulfil the bargain their ancestor had struck, undo his work, and release him from his imprisonment. Colt, in return, was determined that all of his descendants would be hunters, would guard against the bargain ever being fulfilled. And so we have been."

She fell silent, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

John drew a breath. He sat watching her watch him, rather anxiously, and thought, for the first time in a month, of home. Of the big old house in Kansas City with the messy, overgrown garden; of his little sister, at college now and undoubtedly frantic about him; of his stepmother who loved them both like her own children; of his Dad, larger than life and always in control. Nothing could go wrong while the General was there, he'd thought as a child.

But the General had been there, and everything had still gone wrong. Vietnam had been the start of it, weeks spent crawling through the jungle always a scant inch away from death, with the worst of what humanity was in his face every day.

Dad had encouraged him to go, to start at the bottom and work his way up, to make his own career and not be _Harry Winchester's boy _forever.

Dad hadn't been able to prevent Cold Oak. Any more than going home, turning his back on this world – on Mary – would make the telekinesis stop.

Or take away the knowledge of what was really out there in the dark. For the rest of his life, home would always be tainted by that shadow, lurking in the corners of the room.

Mary had spent her life in those corners, and to him, new to them as he was, she shone in the dark. Demonic curses or no, that light drew him. He didn't want to leave her.

Besides. Go home now, and he would always feel he'd lost somehow. _Winchesters do not lose_, the General would say.

Still, this was the first time since Cold Oak that the finality of his decision really came home to him. No turning back. Ever. He was in too deep for that.

"So if Mary is the one it wants, why the rest of us? Not counting the bodies, there were three other kids in Cold Oak."

Mary had a smile he could gaze at _forever._

Dan didn't seem to have heard John's question. "The stories I heard about Colt say he made a gun that can kill anything, and gave it to another hunter," he said, frowning.

Mary shrugged. "Mom never told me that story. I've only heard it since I started looking into my gifts." She put sarcastic emphasis on the last words. John agreed; they were more like a curse. "What do you know about the Chosen?"

Dan jerked his head at Abe. "What he's told me. That there are people out there, kids, who have been marked by a powerful demon who means for them to destroy humankind. They're still human, so they don't suffer the restrictions placed upon demons. And the most powerful of these kids is to become the demon's host, a body it could never be exorcised from. Cold Oak is meant to be the place where it all starts."

"As if that weren't complicated enough," Abe spoke up for the first time since Mary had told them Colt's story, "there are also stories that speak of a war in which these Chosen are meant to play a part."

"I see what you mean about speculation," John said to Mary. She grinned. "Yeah. There's bits and pieces of the truth in hundreds of stories, and no two are the same."

Abe leaned forward, fixing an intense look on John. "There are ways to eliminate possibilities. For example, you're sure you were meant to kill one another? That would pretty much cancel the soldiers-in-a-demon-army idea."

"No one is going to destroy their army by having the soldiers kill each other," John agreed. "I didn't see any set of instructions. But Justin sure as hell believed it."

_This is our destiny, you fool!_ he'd screamed, and then John had had the knife in his hand and twisted, lightning-fast, even as the demon broke free of Mary's control, and slashed it up and across Justin's throat unthinkingly, and then all that had been left was to scramble to his feet, fling out a hand for the iron poker to jump into and toss it to Mary, who'd stabbed it into the demon without a moment's hesitation.

"So maybe he got instructions," Dan suggested, hauling John back into the present.

"Maybe," Abe said. "He was there the longest, I'm guessing. But one other thing. Mary mentioned bindings?"

She pushed her hands through her hair. Again. Getting more unsettled by the minute. John wondered if she could read _his_ tells like this. "John asked about exorcisms, ways to stop the Demon. I told him there were legends about objects that could be used to bind demons – you know, like the story of Azazel in the Book of... Enoch, wasn't it?"

"He was the first to be bound," Abe agreed. "There have been many others, some greater, some lesser. And there are certain things about Azazel, by the way, that are especially interesting in conjunction with Mary's family story. Did you know he was supposed to have taught humans the art of making weapons?"

"It was cosmetics," Mary said.

"It was both," John said. They all turned to stare at him. "What? My mother's Jewish. Also the Antichrist. She thought that sort of story was educational. Azazel was one of the chief Grigori, the fallen angels who took human women to wife, right? He taught men the secrets of weaponry, and women cosmetics, so they could entice men from the paths of righteousness. From him humans learned to sin. But eventually the arch angels were sent to overthrow the Grigori, and one of them – I forget which – bound him, and buried him in the desert for eternity."

"Mary," Abe said, getting to his feet and making his way into the kitchen. "Make sure you keep this man. He's the first one I've ever seen you with that I actually like."

"I'm flattered," John quipped.

"You make me sound like an awful skank," Mary protested.

"Skank, no. But you weren't exactly... selective, shall we say... as a teenager."

Mary huffed. Dan grinned. The two of them had struck up a comfortable friendly rivalry over the last two days. John just slid a hand into Mary's, fingers twining together, and gave it the slightest of squeezes. She squeezed back.

Abe had been clattering about in the kitchen as they talked, but now he paused, one hand resting on the coffee machine, frowning at something they couldn't see. Mary got up and walked over to him, taking all their empty mugs with her.

"Abe?" she asked, touching his arm. "You still with us?"

He swung to face her. "Not anymore," he said, and then he shoved her back brutally so she was sliding across the wooden floor to hit the opposite wall, the mugs falling with a clatter of broken china, and suddenly John couldn't move a muscle.

"The hell!" Dan exclaimed, starting forwards, but Abe's head turned to him, and he froze like John.

"I really shouldn't bother with you," Abe told him conversationally, sauntering towards them. "But on the other hand, killing people is so much effort. Wouldn't you agree, Johnny?"

When Abe finally met John's gaze head-on, his eyes were yellow.

"You're a demon," John rasped. Difficult to talk when you're being held in a vice-like grip by an invisible force.

It chuckled. "Johnny Boy. I am _The Demon_."

"Full of yourself, too," John said, and then the only thing in his world was red-hot pain that exploded in his gut and seeped into every cell in his body, lighting his nerves and destroying his ability to think, to be, to know anything but agony –

When it receded, he was on his knees, and his throat felt scratchy. Had he been screaming? He couldn't remember.

"Respect," the demon said (John refused it the capitalisation, even in his head). "That's all I'm asking, John. After all, I am the only reason you're still alive today. Not to mention – you did call me."

"Call you?" Mary grated out. She sounded hoarse, too, as if she'd been yelling. When had she been yelling? She was sitting on the floor, back pressed against the wall, legs stretched in front of her, caught in the same grip as John and Dan.

The demon twisted Abe's face into a smirk. "You spoke my name, my dear girl. Three times, no less. And as I was looking for you anyway..." It shrugged. "I admit it was a little unconventional. I usually ask for a _bit_ more ceremony. And blood, of course."

Mary's eyes widened. "Azazel? You're Azazel?"

"My reputation precedes me," it observed, preening.

"Not really. But I always wondered what it must be like to be damned to spend eternity buried under a cliff," Mary said, pouring all the sarcasm and anger and defiance she could into the words. It barely even narrowed its eyes at her that John could see, but suddenly she was twisting in the same agony that had consumed him not a moment ago, her screams the most terrible thing he'd ever heard.

"Stop it!" he yelled at it. "Stop –"

Abe's head snapped back round to look at him, and the demon heaved a sigh as Mary collapsed, trembling.

"Johnny, Johnny. I have to say, I'm disappointed in you. In both of you, actually. You were supposed to fight each other, not fuck."

"Sorry about that," John rasped. It was an effort to take his eyes off Mary's still-trembling form to look back at the thing in front of him.

"No, you're not," Azazel said, and now it sounded amused. "You've made it your mission in life to disappoint, haven't you? Never good enough for Mommy's standards, not strong enough to be the son Daddy expects. You couldn't even save Alex – only yourself."

The words made John flinch. Not a day went by when he didn't feel guilty for Alex' death, for the way he'd just lain there and stared in shock after the soldier he'd just flung into a river while his friend was about to be butchered not twenty feet away. But as for the rest...

"Fuck you. I make my own choices, and my parents have nothing to do with it."

Azazel still seemed amused. "Tell the truth, I would expect nothing less of one of my kids. Some really have been disappointments, of course – most, actually. You humans are so fragile, so breakable. The smallest of things can twist you beyond recognition. Pathetic. Here I am, one of the most powerful beings to walk this Earth, born of fire and air and infinity, and I'm expected to bow to _you_?"

"The other way round isn't happening any time soon," Mary rasped.

"No? We'll see. The two of you – ah. I was so pleased when I saw what you'd become. Delighted, even. Don't glare, John, it won't kill me. I promise you that. You, my boy... you could have been a general, the leader and lord of all my armies, my heir, my son. And Marianna here, well."

It left the living room for the first time, wandering over to Mary, Abe's body but not his movements, the stride, the set of the shoulders all wrong. Stood there looking down at her lying helpless on her back, and smiled lasciviously, eyes burning through her clothes. "Your knowledge was what I wanted from you," it told her. "Your knowledge, and your bloodline. Priestess, consort, queen, mother of my new world. All those things, and more."

She couldn't move, and didn't speak, but the answer was there, plain as day, on her face.

Azazel turned back to John, still smiling a little. "But actually, I think I like this idea even more," it said. "Join me, both of you. Join me, and I will raise you above all others. Join me, and I will give you anything you desire. Join me. You will have power beyond anything that you can imagine, spend eternity together, be king and queen of a world that is yours to do with as you will. Hades and Persephone, eternal rulers of the underworld. Join me."

John stared at it, shocked. Why didn't it just kill them? God knew he didn't even have to think about his answer. "No," he said, anger colouring his voice. "No, never. I've seen what you are – what you do. I won't be a part of it."

Again, Azazel didn't move, but John hit the wall and collapsed next to Mary with a force that knocked him out for a few seconds.

"The offer will not stand forever," Azazel said. "Think carefully, Johnny. The power to protect your family, your precious friends. To change the world any way you see fit. You could even see Alex again, finally make things right with him - just as Mary could see Mom and Dad. Banish all those nasty nightmares, eh? And as I said. You'd live forever, both of you. Think on it, John."

John stared at him, silent and dizzy, unable to think straight. It was Mary who answered.

"We're the last ones," she said, sounding as if she'd only just figured it all out. "You can't kill us, because we're your last chance. I'm right, aren't I? You can't afford for us to die. But... but you can't force us to be what you want, either. We're human. We have free will. You can coerce, and seduce, and tempt, and lure, but _you can't force us_. And if we reject you, there's nothing you can do about it."

She drew a breath, harsh, gasping, pain-filled. "I reject you. We both do, you heard John. Now leave us alone!"

Azazel drew back from her, pulled itself up to its – Abe's – full height, face twisting in fury. "You will never be free of me," it promised. "You are mine, both of you. I Chose you, and I marked you, and you will never be free of that."

And then it threw Abe's head back and left him. Not in a billow of demon smoke from his mouth as Mary had described it to John, but out of his chest, exploding out of Abe's body in a shower of blood and guts and a scream of agony.

_"Abe, no!"_

The old man's body collapsed in a bloody, shattered heap in front of them, and suddenly they could move again, but John wasn't sure he could even if he was free, and then hands on his shoulders and Dan's voice, urging him to his feet, encouraging, steadying him. Mary clung to him; they all slipped in Abe's blood, drenching his perfect wooden floor, drenching them, but Dan pushed and propelled and herded the two of them out of the front door. People shouting, a scream or two, flashlights moving up the stairwell, the cops?

Back inside, across the living room, past Abe's body, his chest burst open as if a wild animal had clawed its way out of his ribcage. Mary whimpered in horror. _I've seen worse,_ a small detached voice whispered in John's mind, and suddenly everything snapped back into focus, the soldier he'd thought he'd destroyed, drowned in beer and cheep whiskey long months ago, taking control with frightening ease.

"Our bags," he said. "The cops mustn't get them."

Dan looked at him sharply, and then nodded. "Go. Fire escape's over there, in the kitchen. We'll wait in the Impala."

John barely made it out of the window before the police broke into the penthouse, a bullet zinged off the frame by his head, and then he was gone, down, down, down, a never-ending spiral, the stairs clattering under his boots, bags heavy and awkward, across the alley, a policeman shouting at him as he ran, and then the back of the car, Dan driving, Mary crouched in the passenger seat, silent and horrified, and they were gone.

Dan checked them into a motel on the outskirts of the city, two rooms side-by-side. Mary didn't wait to fetch any protection out of the car, just disappeared into their room, already pulling her clothes off, still trembling. John followed her in, shut and locked the door, hands shaking as he peeled his blood-drenched shirt off.

It hit the floor with a sickening wet slap. Even over the hiss of the shower, he could hear Mary's - not so much sobs as harsh, desperate gasps of air. John stripped off and joined her, water swirling blood-red across the floor of the shower stall. She was scrubbing angrily at her arms, at the bloodstains still etched on her pale skin, and her head jerked up when John pulled the shower curtain back.

"Get out," she hissed at him. "Leave me alone – don't-"

Even when dry, he would have had a hard time holding onto her. Naked and soaking was twice as hard, but somehow he did it, pinning her arms to her sides and holding her close as the water washed Abe's blood away and she started, finally, to sob.

He sank to the floor of the shower stall, holding her on his lap, and there they sat, every muscle in their bodies shaking, until the water ran cold and she raised her tear-stained face off his chest and gave him a shaky, uncertain smile of thanks through the sobs that still shook her slender body.


	5. iv: to a castle i will take you

**To a castle I will take you  
**

They hid in Dan's cabin for nearly four months. Manning was tucked away in the Colorado forests, small and quiet, the cabin itself isolated. Dan put John and Mary to work almost as soon as they arrived, everything from chopping firewood out the back to sparring to target-practice to research and studying.

John knew what he was doing. Distracting them, wearing them out, exhausting them to the point where neither of them could think about Cold Oak, or Minneapolis, or Azazel.

None of them ever spoke that name aloud again, and Mary and John were careful never to use their abilities.

Mary cried herself to sleep in John's arms every night for the first week, and often afterwards. Abe had been as much an uncle to her as Ben Roberts. She flung herself into 'work' wholeheartedly, and stayed close to John.

Actually, it was more accurate to say they stayed close to each other. Never far apart, and often touching.

John wrote postcards. To Katie, to Allison, to Deacon, and to the General. One each, at the end of every month. Never anything more than simple messages like _I'm OK__, hope you guys are doing alright_ or _could be I'll see you soon_.

"Dad started it," he explained to Mary one weekend at the post office. "When he was away, when we were kids, we'd get a postcard each, every week actually, so we'd know he was still OK."

She smiled. "Nice."

The mountains surrounding them offered their own kind of comfort, their eternal changelessness a balm for the soul, like the myriad of stars they could see at night. Hiking through the woods quickly became their favourite way to spend a Sunday, lost in the silence and beauty and calm around them.

They didn't talk much. All the need for that seemed to have disappeared. It felt sometimes as if talking required an effort that would only make it worse, make them think, make them remember. Better to live in this comfortable, companionable silence, where their conversations were held in looks and gestures, in brief affectionate kisses and slow tender lovemaking.

September was drawing to a close, and the Colorado nights were getting colder.

"Didn't you go to college?" Mary asked one night in bed. John had spent most of the evening with Latin declensions, and he was picking it up pretty damn quickly.

He shook his head, pulled the blankets up around their shoulders. "No. Took myself off to Vietnam instead. After I got back, the idea of spending four years shut up in a dorm room with a typewriter and a pile of musty books didn't really appeal to me anymore. So I ended up learning motors."

"What about the military?"

"On leave. Plus I was injured, so that gave me time. In the end, I decided I really didn't want to spend the rest of my life getting shot at, so I resigned, and headed off on a road trip with Deacon to get up the courage to tell Dad. Not that he's gonna disinherit me, or anything. He'll just be surprised, and disappointed. I hate that."

"I know what you mean," Mary said softly. "I was a mess in high school. And every time something… happened, Uncle Ben would give me this look, like, _what your parents would say if they could see you now_. Thing is, that just made it worse."

_"_Didn't _you_ go to college?"

"Academic achievement isn't one of my virtues. Mark owns a farm up in Connecticut. I stayed for three years, and he took me hunting every now and then. When my 'gift' showed up, I left, started looking for answers. Ben was in Canada. He disappears for a few months every now and then – always has done. Used to drive my Dad nuts when he didn't check in. Dad was older, see."

John laughed. "Oh, I know all about younger siblings," he agreed.

Dan left them alone quite a bit, taking off for a fortnight at a time to hunt. He seemed to sense they couldn't deal with anything – or anyone – but each other just yet, and they were both quietly grateful to him.

But their peace was shattered early one frosty morning when a large black car with tinted windows drew up and an older guy in a suit climbed out. He was broad-shouldered, grey-haired and dark eyed, and reminded Mary of someone. It wasn't his looks as much as it was his attitude, the way he walked, the quiet but unshakeable self-confidence he held himself with.

"John," she called as she heard him come down the stairs.

"Yeah?" He sauntered into the kitchen with tousled hair and shirt hanging open (which really wasn't fair on her, she thought) and still-sleepy eyes.

"Your Dad's here."

_That_ woke him up.

"What!"

Mary left the kitchen window open so she could eavesdrop.

"The hell are you doing here?" John demanded as soon as he got out the front door.

"The hell am I doing here!" the General shouted. "What about you? You disappear in the middle of a two-week road trip without telling even _Deacon_ what's going on, let alone your own _family_, then I have to find out from _Jeff_ you've resigned your commission, and three weeks later I start getting postcards!"

"If I'd known you'd be so interfering as to track me down, I wouldn't have bothered," John growled.

"This isn't funny, John," his father snarled right back. "What do you think you're doing? Messing about _trying_ to annoy me?" Then his voice softened, took on a worried note. "Or are you in trouble, or something?"

John sighed. "Or something," he admitted. The General's eyes narrowed, caught between concern and anger still.

"The one thing I always believed of our relationship was that you had enough trust in me – enough sense – to come to me if you were in trouble," he said quietly. "I know I've been away too much to ever win a Parent of the Year award, but I did think that."

John heaved a sigh, ran a hand over his mouth. That meant anything from awkwardness to embarrassment to unhappiness. Maybe she should go rescue him.

"Dad – I do trust you. But this… you can't fix this. I'm not talking about a speeding ticket, or a bar fight, or anything like that. This is different."

"Different how?" his father wanted to know. "As far as I can see all this is is you hiding up here in the Colorado woods letting your life slip away from you with every day." He did a 180-turn, taking in the house, the forest, the Impala sitting not far away under a tarp, and then did a double-take.

Damn it. He'd spotted Mary through the kitchen window.

She didn't bother to hide, just sauntered out the front door in jeans and boots and unwashed, untidy hair and John's t-shirt from yesterday.

"General Winchester? Pleased to meet you, sir. I'm Mary Roberts."

John's expression didn't change, but those beautiful brown eyes glowed.

The General shook hands with her with a polite smile, but she saw the way his eyes flickered downwards, to her abdomen.

"I'm not pregnant, if that's what you're worried about," she said calmly.

John suppressed a whoop of laughter at the way his father practically jerked back from her in surprise. Harry Winchester wasn't really used to women like Mary – blunt, outspoken, and completely sure of themselves. John's mother was a devious, soulless bitch, and Allison was good and kind and loving – a lady. And while Katie had some attitude, chiefly from being the spoiled baby of the family, she was no match for Mary.

Then the General smiled slowly. "Young lady," he said, "I'm rather offended you think I'd be worried about it."

Mary started to like him at that point. "Would you like to come in and have breakfast?"

"The house is yours?" he asked. She shook her head. "No. Friend of ours, we're just house-sitting."

"I see. Tell me, are you in the same… trouble… as my son here?"

"Yes." She didn't elaborate. That wasn't her place; this was John's father.

"Dad," he said now, more softly this time. "Dad, this is one thing you're going to have to trust me on. Please. Just go home, tell Katie and Allison I'm OK, and let me do this. Trust me, Dad."

The General stood looking at him for a long time, studying the man his broken, hurting son had become in the space of a few short months. He suspected it was Mary's doing. He hadn't missed the looks they'd exchanged, the bond between them. John crossed over to them, standing close to her; when she twined her fingers through his, it seemed an almost unconscious gesture.

He looked up again, met John's eyes.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," he grumbled. John smiled.

"Thanks, Dad."

"Just don't disappear again," his father ordered. "I expect postcards, one a month, and the occasional phone call to your sister and stepmother if you think you can stand that. You know how to reach me if you ever need anything."

"Yessir," John said, grateful.

"Miss Roberts."

"Mary, please."

"Mary, then. Keep an eye on him for me?"

"My pleasure, General."

John pulled Mary into his arms as the car drew away. She snuggled close, goosebumps rising on her bare arms.

Dan arrived back a few days later, while they were in the middle of a sparring match. John had been rusty when they'd started training, and Mary not very experienced. A few months of constant practice later, and watching them spar was like watching an intricate, perfectly choreographed dance to which only they knew the steps.

Dan paused to watch them, wondering what they'd look like on a proper dance floor. Mary in a dress, and John a tux… the thought made him smile sadly. These kids had saved his life, and yet it was entirely possible that they themselves had no future whatsoever.

"Having fun?" he called out. John looked round, surprised, and Mary took swift advantage of his distraction. He tumbled to the ground with a yelp, and she burst out laughing – cut off when he kicked out, catching her in the knees and dropping her to the ground next to him.

Dan laughed along with them, the sound filling his usually empty back yard.

"You two been OK?"

"Fine, Dan," Mary said, sitting up, still smiling. "How about you?" John propped himself up on his elbows to hear the answer.

"Well," Dan said slowly, "A friend got in touch with me last night. Seems there have been a few disappearances a couple counties over, one body found so far. Pattern looks like a spirit. I thought maybe you two would like to check it out?"

He literally held his breath waiting for an answer. They needed to be OK, these two. He needed them to be OK.

Sometimes he was afraid the whole world did.

Mary and John were exchanging a long look. There was a spark of excitement dancing in John's dark eyes; when Mary saw it, she grinned for the first time in four months.

"Sure, why not?" she said.

"What's the name of the place?" John added.

* * *

Ben Roberts could hardly believe it had taken him six months to track his niece down. Wasn't it just yesterday she'd been a quiet, cheerful golden-haired little girl who loved stories and hung on her cousin's every word?

His son Mark had laughed at that. "Get over it, Dad," he'd said. "And get over it quick. You were gone a good while before Mary took off, and she's changed. Gotten stronger, for one thing."

Mark had been right, it turned out. The little girl had mostly died with her parents, but Ben didn't even see the lost, hurting teenager in the young woman before him. Mary carried herself with a new self-confidence, hair loose around her shoulders for a change. She'd picked up a suntan, and she moved differently too, quicker, more coordinated, more… graceful. Mouth quirked in a hesitant smile, but her hazel-green eyes were bright as ever.

Ned's eyes. Mark had been right; he shouldn't have left for Canada when he did.

"Uncle Ben." Nothing hesitant about the hug she gave him. He could feel firm muscle under her skin when he gripped her arms, held her back to study her closely. She'd always been cheeky, but this Mary had attitude. Pain in her eyes, horror mostly buried, deep under a layer of pure… contentment.

Then Ben looked up, and saw the cause of that last. John Winchester. Bit over six feet tall, broad but quick-looking, black hair and deep, dark brown eyes. Biker boots, scruffy jeans, a sweater under the heavy black leather jacket. Intense-looking, like he was the sort of guy to throw himself wholeheartedly into whatever he took on.

It took a moment before Ben realised the boy was studying him right back.

"John, this is my uncle Ben," Mary said. "Ben, John Winchester." She bit the left corner of her bottom lip as they shook hands.

"John," Ben greeted him. "Dan Elkins has been singing your praises."

John grinned. "Dan's been singing full stop, or you wouldn't be here, as I understand it," he said in a deep Midwestern drawl, and then smiled more fully when Mary scowled at him. Ben sensed the remark had been more for her than him. Had they fought about coming to see him? He felt a bit offended.

Mary could see it. She always had read him with the same ease Ned had. "I didn't think you'd approve, and I don't want to fight about it," she said.

"Instead of which you let me find out from Bill Harvelle that Abe's been killed, and you've disappeared, and not even Mark has seen you for months," Ben said sharply.

Beside him, John tensed.

Mary just sighed. "You can't do anything about this," she said.

"Try me. You're my niece."

"I've been marked by a demon thousands of years old that wants me to destroy humankind," Mary snapped. "And you think you can _fix this_?"

Ben drew a deep, calming breath. "John, will you give us a minute?"

"Sure," John said slowly, eyes on Mary, not Ben. "I'll… be in the parking lot."

Was that sarcasm? Arrogant pup.

The diner door closed behind him with the same tinkle diner doors across the world open and close with.

Mary sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.

"He's been… marked, as well?" Ben asked.

"How do you think we met?" Mary said drily.

"Are you lovers?"

"What gave it away?"

"The whole time, he never took his eyes off you. And you were checking him out as he left."

She smirked at him. "Oh, yeah."

"You know about his family, yes?"

"His Dad's a General in the Marines, if that's what you mean. And I can't believe you snooped around in his past before you came here. Or actually, I can. I just don't want to."

"His mother owns half the state of California."

"They don't talk. John calls her the Antichrist."

"The boy had acceptance letters into half a dozen Ivy League colleges before he left for Vietnam," Ben pressed on.

Mary carried on glaring. He sighed. "Mary. I don't want you hurt, my girl. Physically or romantically. If you carry on like this – with this – the former will happen. No doubt about it."

"And the latter?" She really had changed. The Mary he remembered would have been yelling by now. This one was calm, controlled despite the fury seething in her look.

"How long do you really think he's going to live this life before he figures out what he's left behind – what he's thrown away?" It was cruel, he knew, but he had to do it. Had to make her see, to come back to Connecticut where he could protect her and leave the hunting to him and Mark.

When he saw her flinch, though, he wondered if he'd gone too far. Ned and Lisa's deaths had torn gaping holes in their beautiful daughter; in her heart, her ability to trust, her willingness to love and be loved. It taken him, Mark and Colleen nearly six years to help her repair them even a little. Had he just undone all that?

"John will stay as long as he has to," Mary said quietly. "He can't escape this any more than I can. And Az – the Demon said it would never just leave us alone. I can't come back to Connecticut, Uncle Ben. I just can't. It killed Abe because I went to him for answers, and to spite us. I can't watch that happen to you, or Mark, or Colleen, and certainly not the kids. And John won't watch it do that to his family."

She stood up, coffee untouched, still perfectly calm and quiet. "Leave a message at Dan's if you need to get in touch with me."

Ben didn't stop her. He wasn't sure he could. Stunned and horrified, the enormity of what Mary had said slowly dawning on him, he watched as she crossed the parking lot, joined John. He didn't even glance at Ben, all his attention on Mary. She smiled up at him, said something. When he still looked concerned, she reached up, pressed her lips to his. Not a passionate kiss, but a loving one, reassuring. Ben was about stunned when she let him drive the Impala. He had the sinking feeling he'd just made a pretty stupid mistake.

* * *

Mike Harris was having a bad day. First the car had broken down, whereupon he'd been late for work, then his brother had called to tell him their Dad had broken an ankle falling off a stepladder, and now that Deacon and the guys had finally dragged him out for a beer or two, the blonde at the bar was steadfastly refusing to flirt with him.

"I'm with someone, sorry," she said, not looking it in the least.

Mike was too drunk to care. "Here with someone, or just generally with someone?"

"Both," she said. Name was… Mary! That was it. It suggested a nice, sweet girl, but the look she was giving him was none of those things. "Listen, I think you've had enough of those."

He raised his brand-new shot of whiskey up to eye-level, peered thoughtfully into the golden-brown depths.

"Nope," he said. "Let me buy you one."

She choked back laughter. "Mikey, I could almost admire your persistence."

"So you will have a drink with me?"

"No, she won't," a new voice said from behind him. Mary's someone. Tall, dark-haired, folding a sheaf of notes into his leather jacket. "And I don't – holy crap. Harris?"

Mike blinked owlishly. "Bugger me. That you, Win?"

It was. John Winchester, decidedly solid, unshakeable as ever and definitely not MIA.

Anymore.

"Rumours about you, m'boy," Mike told him. "All sorts'a rumours. Lots of 'em. Deacon's been keeping mum. He's right over _there_ someplace…"

"Oh, no," John muttered.

"Army buddies of yours?" Mary surmised.

"You've met!" Mike exclaimed happily.

"You've just spent the last twenty minutes hitting on my girl," John told him, amused.

Mike winced. "Did I? Oops." That sort of thing went very much against the code of brotherhood the five of them were supposed to live by. "Sorry, John."

_"Sorry, John!" _Mary exclaimed incredulously. "Men! He's not the one who's had to sit here fending off your cheesy pick-up lines, you little idiot."

"How many times do I have to remind you you're a possession, not a person?" John asked her.

In his intoxicated state, Mike completely missed the teasing in his friend's voice.

"Damn straight!" he announced, waving the empty shot glass around expansively.

In his intoxicated state, Mary's slap knocked Mike off the bar stool.

"He's probably cracked his skull on the floor," Jake said as they all gathered round Mike's half-conscious form in the parking lot.

"The guilt's overwhelming," Mary said drily.

"Should be," John told her. "Bit remorse would look good in court if you end up paying damages."

"With your money," Mary said calmly. "What took you so long, anyway?"

"Dennis Hopper wanted a rematch," John said, referring to the biker he'd just hustled out of this month's paycheck at pool. "Luckily for Mike's damages claim."

"He'll be too embarrassed to stand up in court and admit a blonde in a bar did this to him," Mary shrugged.

"_I_ can't believe it, let alone a court," Frank muttered, eyeing her.

"We'll see. Mike gets a little crazy sometimes," John said.

"I've just spent all evening noticing," Mary retorted.

Deacon, Jake, and Frank were exchanging rather puzzled looks. Who the hell was this girl?

Finally, Frank dragged his eyes away from Mary's curves and cleared his throat pointedly. "Introductions, Win?" he said.

"Hmm? Oh, right. Mary, that's Frank, Jake and Deacon… guys, Mary Roberts."

"Your…" Jake prodded. Mary's eyes flashed. "_His_ nothing," she said with sharp emphasis on the pronoun.

John grimaced slightly. Spending an evening in a bar getting hit on by seedy guys tended to make her irritable.

Tell the truth, it did the same to him.

"Ah," Frank deadpanned. "So, uh… what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Nice and blunt, straight in for the kill," Jake tossed in sarcastically. John tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans in a gesture Mary knew meant he was being stubborn about something, and just _looked_ at them.

"Oh, come on," Jake said. "You resign your commission, take off without a word in the middle of a road trip, spend the next… what, six, seven months?... completely AWOL only to turn up again in a biker bar whole states away from where we last heard from you in the company of a pretty blonde. What are we supposed to think?"

"First your Dad, now this lot," Mary said. "Why do they all assume you've got me pregnant?"

"It's the only accepted reason for disappearing like that," John shrugged. "Bill and Max both did it."

"Assholes."

"Yeah, they were, kinda. Plus you weren't drinking."

"But it is getting to the point where I could really use a cigarette."

"You smoke?" Frank cut in, staring. In his experience, nice girls did not smoke.

"Quit right after high school actually, while I was at my cousin's," Mary said calmly.

When did she start?

John was getting less amused and more irritated by the second. They'd had a perfect, peaceful day doing nothing for a change, just taking the time to enjoy being together, and now his friends had to show up and ruin it. Mike hitting on Mary was one thing… but if Frank didn't stop checking her out pretty soon, John was going to punch him.

"I'm not about to give you a detailed history of the last seven months, if that's what you're after," he said. Mary curled her fingers round his wrist, applied gentle pressure. It was the only reason he wasn't yelling yet.

"We're your friends," Jake argued.

"Katie's my sister, I haven't spoken to her either," John told him.

"That's different!"

"How, exactly?"

Jake floundered. Frank rolled his eyes. Deacon, who knew John better than any of them, laughed.

"Tell you what," he said. "Why don't you guys start a fight while Mary and I go drum up some coffee?"

"This one, I like," Mary said. "The others, you can't keep."

John grinned. "Oh, come on. They don't eat much."

"They don't think much, either."

"Touché. You need cash?"

"No. Deacon's buying."

Their benefactor sputtered. John burst out laughing.

"So how long have you known John?" Deacon asked Mary as they crossed the road to the diner opposite the bar.

"Seven months. You?"

"Seven years. Or so. We went to high school together, him, me… and Alex."

"John told me about him. I'm sorry."

Amazingly, she was.

"Thank you. Erm… did he… did he say…" Deacon hesitated. He'd never told anyone about John's drunken confession to him that he'd been too late to save Alex because he'd been throwing a guy into a river without even touching him.

"Yes," Mary said calmly.

"Thought so. I couldn't think of anything else that would rattle him so badly he'd take off the way he did."

"It wasn't entirely intentional," Mary said wryly. "I'm surprised you believed him, actually."

Deacon shrugged. "My grandmother had… a sort of sixth sense about stuff. She saw things before they happened, sometimes, knew when something was wrong with my brother and me. Let's just say I don't disbelieve him."

"Works for me. Six black coffees, please."

Deacon waited till the girl had left again before asking, "Has he… has he been OK?"

Mary looked at him, straight on, hazel-green eyes appraising. Deacon felt a bit awkward under that intense unwavering gaze, but whatever she saw in him, she seemed to like it.

"No, he hasn't. Neither have I. But we're getting over it."

Deacon smiled. "So you are his… something?"

She laughed. "Yes. Yes, I guess I am. It's a new one for me, but yes."

"Good awkwardness, though," was all Deacon said.

When Mary Roberts smiled, he found he was in danger of falling out of love with his fiancé for good.

"Yes," she said softly. "A very good awkwardness."

And just like that, he was back on solid ground. Smiles like that lost their appeal when you knew they were for another man.

John was so screwed.

"So why are you guys in town?" he asked as they collected the coffees and left the diner. Mary shrugged.

"We're just passing through. On our to… well, nowhere, really."

"You're saying he ditched me just to go road tripping with you?" Deacon demanded.

"Can you blame me?" John said as they re-entered the parking lot. "Besides, she's got a kick-ass car."

"I always knew it wasn't me you wanted," Mary sighed.

"I can't have both?"

"That's just greedy."

"Your point being?"

"What model is it?" Deacon cut in hastily before they completely forgot about him.

"67 Chevy Impala," Mary smirked.

Deacon gaped at her. "No… way," he breathed reverently.

"Mike's woken up," Frank said, joining them. "Jake's gone for a bucket of water. What's Dec drooling over?"

"My car," Mary said smugly.

"Huh," Frank said. "Never had you down for a Mini Cooper person, Dec." He wasn't entirely sure why he said it – the beer he'd drunk, perhaps, or the fact that one of his closest friends had just appeared out of nowhere after months of silence and was acting like a complete stranger because of some _girl _– but as soon as the words left his mouth he regretted it. John didn't even say anything. The look on his face was enough.

"Tell you what," Deacon cut in hastily. "Why don't we all go our separate ways to sober up, and then meet back here tomorrow for a drink?"

Frank nodded slowly, still watching his old friend. When John stayed silent, he said, "Sure. Sounds good. I'll get Jake, let him know." He slipped away with a brief nod to John and Mary.

John rubbed a hand over his mouth. "We're not going to be here tomorrow," he said. Deacon smiled faintly.

"Didn't think so."

"Manning, Colorado," John said. "Ask for Daniel Elkins' place. If we're not there, he can reach us."

"I'll expect explanations when I come," Deacon warned.

"More than you can handle," John promised as they embraced.

"See you, Deacon," Mary smiled at him again. He hugged her. "Good luck with Win," he said. "Don't think you'll need it, though."

She laughed.

John couldn't hide his relief when the motel room door finally clicked shut between them and the world. The last months he'd spent with Mary felt like an eternity, a huge chasm that separated him from the boy who had been friends with those loud, cheerful, careless guys slowly rebuilding their lives after the war that had brought them all together.

Sometimes he found it hard to believe that boy had ever existed.

Mary was leaning against the partition between bedroom and kitchen, watching him silently. She wore the same look she had when they'd met in Cold Oak: a mix of pity and sorrow and regret. _I'm sorry you can't go back to that,_ that look said.

The faintest glint of fear in her eyes that he would try just the same. She would never admit to it, never acknowledge it, but it was there. Always. Only when they made love was it forgotten, driven away by all-consuming kisses, the brush of hands over warm soft skin, their bodies intertwined in the ecstatic perfection of _them_.

Much in the same way that his nightmares would never entirely go away, or his desperate need to be in control of what was happening around him. He'd left Vietnam determined never to be that helpless again.

To say the two of them were damaged was an understatement, he sometimes thought. But they'd get through it.

"I'm sorry he insulted the car," he said.

She smiled. "Make it up to me?"

John crossed the room in two quick strides, and Mary sank into his embrace with a whispered little sigh.

* * *

The first time John told Mary he loved her, she laughed. Tossed her long curls at him and slipped out of the door of the motel room, leaving the echo of her laugh hanging in the air behind her.

He was stunned, and a bit hurt. What sort of girl laughs when the guy she's been… seeing… for _months_ tells her he loves her?

True, the first time they'd had sex, two days after escaping Cold Oak, had been more a desperate comfort, an affirmation of life, rather than the beginning of a love affair. Neither of them had really expected it to happen again. And yet, somehow, a real relationship had grown out of it over the last few months at Dan's place. So…

"You heard me earlier, right?" he said over breakfast, an hour or so later.

"About calling Dan before we go check out those killings?" she asked, looking deep into her coffee cup as if all the mysteries of the universe were contained therein.

"No, you silly goose. The part where I said I loved you."

"Oh, that."

"Oh, that?"

"Johnny, I-"

"Would you like more coffee?" the waitress interrupted, and that was that.

He tried again, a week later, when they were in bed, so tightly curled round each other he was having a hard time telling where he left off and she started.

"Mary, I love you."

She twisted against him, raising her head up off his chest and giving him a smile and a kiss, which quickly turned passionate, and it wasn't till the next morning he realised she hadn't actually answered him.

It was as if she couldn't even hear it. As if the words meant nothing to her.

When he woke up in the hospital after the poltergeist hunt had gone rather gorily wrong, she was sitting next to his bed, an arm in a sling, covered in scratches, and he realised he'd been right. Words didn't mean a thing to her. Never had, never would.

"You almost died," she sobbed out, fingers twisting into his. "Because of me, because I slipped up, you almost died."

"Good cause," he said hoarsely. "Did you think I was just going to lie there while it killed you?"

She leaned over him, so close their noses were almost touching, staring into his eyes. He blinked a couple times, and she smiled slowly, a smile filled with wonderment and understanding and the joy you feel when the sun comes out after the rain.

"You do love me," she said softly.

"I've been telling you that for weeks," John said, understandably a bit testy.

She shrugged, and her loose shirt slipped off one shoulder, revealing the straps of her black tank top. Almost in spite of himself, he reached up and pressed a kiss against that smooth rounded shoulder.

"People have been telling me things for years," she said softly. "Things like _don't worry_ and _it's OK_ and _Dad and I will be back any day now, Mary, we're almost done here_. Only any day later, Mom and Dad were both dead, and Uncle Ben wouldn't even tell me what had killed them."

John stilled. She'd never spoken of her parent's deaths, when she'd been fourteen, before. Then he relaxed, ever so slightly. "I don't make promises I can't keep," he told her. "And I'm not 'people' either."

She kissed him softly, ignoring the scandalised nurse who'd just walked in. "I love you too, Johnny."


	6. v: circles of the world

_** AN:** I am so making this up as I go along. For the source of my inspiration, read Diana Wynne Jones' marvelous novel "Deep Secret". Title – and Mary's quotation at the end – from Tolkien, of course.  
_

**Circles of the World**

John wasn't entirely sure how they'd ended up in Florida. It wasn't as if either of them had any particular affection for the place. No decent leads for counties, either. Maybe they'd taken a wrong turn off the Interstate.

"I think I hate Florida," Mary voiced his thoughts. They were outside a gas station, filling up the Impala, and both of them were sweltering in the humid unmerciful heat. Mary was tying her hair back into a ponytail, squinting even behind her sunglasses. John was debating whether or not to just give in and take his shirt off.

"North it is, then," he said. Mary nodded firmly. "To the Yukon. I'll go pay."

He laughed as he turned to put the pump back, and then jumped when she tugged his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans.

"Oh, sure. Spend _my_ money on _your_ car, why don't you."

"I will, don't worry. Thanks for the offer."

She blew him a kiss and slipped inside the shop. There were a few other customers in the queue in front of her, and some milling around the shop itself, pouring over the magazine rack. Taking advantage of the air-conditioning, probably. John found himself absently watching a pale-looking man about his own age, dressed all in black, peering contemplatively into the ice-cream box. There was something almost furtive about him, hunched and nervous.

The exact opposite to the guy in the pink silk shirt who was currently hitting on Mary. She blew him off, looking caught between exasperation and amusement. The shirt _was_ kinda hilarious, John had to admit.

It also seemed to be the source of superhuman self-confidence. The guy stepped round to face her again after she'd turned away, pouring on the oily charm. Mary's head tilted to one side slightly, and when she spoke, John felt an odd shiver run through him. The guy backed off, moving across the shop, but John was busy rubbing at the goosebumps on his arms and didn't see.

"Everything OK?"

Mary was standing in front of him, ice-cold bottle of water in either hand.

"Yeah," John said slowly, taking one. "Yeah, I'm good. Hey, you use your ability on that jerk?"

"Some people can't take no for an answer," she said with an eye-roll.

"Thought he looked kinda glazed over when he turned away."

She grinned at his half-hearted joke. "On second thoughts, shall we get a room? I think we're due a vacation."

They _had_ had a pretty exhausting week, involving a coven of witches in small-town-Georgia. The spirit they'd summoned had broken free and started killing the coven members, and it had taken them days to track its grave down _and_ protect the idiots who'd summoned it, but John barely heard her. He was staring at the shop, and the back of the guy Mary had used her ability on. Had he actually sensed her using it? Or was it just coincidence?

In the car, Mary insisted on staying someplace with a pool. John's thoughts strayed to an image of her in a bikini and wholeheartedly agreed, earlier discomfort completely forgotten.

They spent the rest of the day by the poolside, swimming and sunbathing. Mary was grateful the motel was otherwise almost deserted; John's scars, in combination with his corps tattoo, were pretty self-explanatory. Hers were a little more difficult. Burn scar above her left knee, a Black Dog's claw marks across her left shoulder and upper arm, pale latticework of scars just above her right hip, relic of a knife-wielding spirit.

"All before I turned twenty," she'd said to John that bright summer's day they'd lain in a clearing halfway up a Colorado mountain and told each other the stories of those scars.

He'd shrugged. "After that, you got better at it. Me, I never learned to dodge bullets."

One below his right shoulder, one in his right thigh. He'd never told her how long it had taken him to walk again.

She got John to rub suncream into her back, and shook her head at him when he didn't bother.

"You'll get sunburn," she said, mock-reproving.

"Nah. I just go brown."

"I envy you. Rather brown than pink."

They lazed until the sun went down, and then had burgers and fries for dinner, both shivering a little in the cool evening breeze, damp swimsuits under their jeans cold and sticky against their skin. Mary wore a thin loose blouse that did nothing to hide her dark bikini top, and John traced the back of it with one finger as they walked up the stairs to their room. She twisted to look at him, one eyebrow raised mischievously. He jumped up a step and laid his arm over her shoulders, pulling her close, her hair damp and cold against him.

"Perfect day," Mary whispered to him as they reached their room. John bent a little and kissed her, warm mouth a sharp contrast to chilled skin, his fingers sliding through her tangled hair. He fumbled with the keys when she pressed herself against him, a breathy laugh escaping into his mouth as they nearly dropped to the floor.

Her hands traced slow fiery paths from his hips over his waist and chest to his shoulders; then she tangled her arms around his neck. The key turned in the lock with a rusty _snick_, and John yanked it out of the lock and tossed it to the carpet just inside the door before wrapping that arm around her waist, pulling her closer, never breaking that deep slow kiss. Her mouth tasted of fries and strawberry milkshake, her skin overlaid with the scent of pool water and suncream, but underneath it, there was still, always, _Mary_.

Easiest thing in the world to drop his hands a bit, lift her up. She braced her arms on his shoulders and brought her legs up around his waist, rough heavy denim pressing through the thin cloth of his t-shirt, then a brief pause for air, his lips trailing down her throat to that hollow where her pulse beat, stepping backwards into the room. She bent her head over his, hands coming up to hold him in place as his mouth marked her pale skin, hair trailing around him, over his shoulders, down his back, and he felt her reach blindly past him to close the door.

He pulled back a little to catch her mouth with his again, still walking backwards to where he knew the bed was, but as Mary tossed her hair back, meaning to bend to meet him, she stiffened against him, eyes looking past him to the room beyond, and just as she exclaimed, "John – look!", his heel hit something and they went down in a heap.

John let out a snort of laughter. Mary was lying on top of him, face pressed against his chest, shaking silently.

"Romantic," he said. "Shall we start again?"

"Maybe in a couple hours," she answered, expression a mix of amusement and concern at once. "Look around."

"What…"

The room had been ransacked. John had stumbled over their boots, lying in a heap yards away from where they'd originally left them in the kitchen area. Their clothes were strewn across floor and furniture, most of which had been toppled. Mary's favourite flickknife and both their guns lay clearly visible in her torn bag in the middle of the room. Even the mattress had been moved half out of the frame, hanging onto the floor.

"My god," Mary said softly.

"I'm guessing there's someone in town who knows who we are," John said softly. Mary nodded, rubbing at her arms nervously.

_Azazel's Chosen._ It made them a target for so many, hunters as well as the supernatural. No spirit or demon attracted by their abilities would bother ransacking their room like this.

So that left humans. Hunters who'd stop at nothing to eliminate anything supernatural that they saw as a threat to the world. Mary could name half-a-dozen of them off the top of her head, fanatics she'd spent years trying to stay away from, although Ben Roberts was on good terms with many of them. Tennant, Carson, Harvelle, Atkins… dangerous men, all.

But none of them knew anything about her and John. Mary had been careful to avoid the more traditional hunter's gathering places these last few months, telling John as little about them as possible, making sure he was as wary of them as she. Lisa Colt's daughter was a bit of a celebrity among hunters anyway. Mary had been involved in a few… escapades… that had only made that worse. Hiding from 'her' people had become a habit even before Cold Oak.

So who had found her?

* * *

John's first instinct was to cut and run, but that really would have given the game away. So far, the only suspicious things in their room were their weapons, and those were easily explained. The Impala hadn't been touched, to Mary's relief, so whoever had been through their room so thoroughly didn't have much evidence to go on.

"Think we should complain?" Mary asked, standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips.

"I don't know," John admitted, finding his last clean shirt tossed under a chair with all his socks. "I mean, I want to just ignore it and get the hell outta Dodge, but-"

"-that would only prove to them we've got something to hide," she finished. "OK. Let's go kick up a fuss."

She did that very well, John thought, watching her with the horrified hotel manager. If her clothes had been just a bit more expensive, her accent a little more polished, he might have mistaken her for one of the arrogant brats he'd grown up around. Not for the first time, he wondered what his mother would make of Mary, and had to grin at the thought.

In the end, they got a full refund and a new room, and the police promised half-heartedly to look into it. Nothing had been taken, and Mary and John were leaving town soon anyway, so the officers who took their statements were neither enthusiastic nor encouraging.

"D'you think someone saw you use your ability at the gas station this morning?" John wondered that night. They'd set up every protection they could think of, but it was nearing midnight, and so far, nothing had happened. Mary's warm weight lay on top of him, her hand over his heart, breath moving lightly over his skin. Now she raised her head to look at him. He loved the way the movement made her tangled hair fall against his side and trail over his chest.

"Be one hell of a coincidence," she said. "No one knows where we are right now – we haven't even spoken to Dan in a fortnight. No, the more I think about it, the more I think we just got unlucky. And more than a little panicky."

"Stranger things have happened," John said. She was right, but he wasn't entirely reassured.

It didn't show on his face, but Mary could sense his unease in the tightening of his arms around her, fingertips digging into her back. "Like your meeting some pushy blonde chick in a demon-infested ghost town in the middle of Wyoming?"

"Yeah, like that," his words a whisper of laughter as she moved up his chest, hovered over him. Gold flecks in his eyes invisible in the faint moonlight, smile that took her breath away. Her thumbnail rasped through the stubble on his jaw.

"So before you tripped so spectacularly… remind me what we were doing?"

"Went something like this," he said, rolling them over, bracing himself up on his elbows as her legs slid over the back of his thighs, and kissed her. Mary pushed the fingers of one hand into his too-long hair and let the other wander down his back to the waistband of his boxers, thumb hooking into the elastic.

"And then?" she murmured into his mouth, moaned a protest when he broke the kiss.

"Wait and see," John said, trailing kisses along her jaw, down her throat, feeling her laughter hum against his lips. Nothing between them but the thin worn cotton of underwear and sheets. Never anything more than that between them, and soon, not even that.

* * *

Mary wasn't sure what woke her – maybe just the humid heat of the motel room. For a while she lay in John's arms in a boneless, contented sprawl, savouring the lazy peace of his embrace. But whatever had woken her also contrived to make her restless, shifting and twisting against her lover. It was like a tickle in the back of her mind, a gentle but incessant poking that wouldn't let her slip back into sleep.

Finally, in exasperation, she slipped out of bed, taking care not to wake John, and pulled on some clothes, moving as silently as possible. Neither of them had ever slept very well; the nightmares about Cold Oak had never entirely gone away, and John's night terrors were exactly that, infrequent but ten times worse than hers, pulling him sweating and trembling and half-panicked from sleep.

He never talked about them, but she didn't need him to tell her they were about Vietnam.

As she buttoned her jeans, he stirred, reaching for her with a sleepy murmur. "I'm just going for snacks," she whispered by his ear, kissed the side of his neck. Then she picked up the gun on the bedside table, pocketed some change and left quietly.

The snack machine was just across the parking lot, the tarmac still warm under Mary's bare feet. The small TV was on in the office, entertaining the night clerk, who must have been sweltering in there. A car occasionally roared past along the road, but otherwise everywhere was silent. Light danced along the buildings near the pool, ever-changing ripples flowing across the pebbled walls.

Quiet, warm, and oh-so peaceful. Mary drew a deep breath, tilted her head back to look at the stars, already soothed. Maybe she should get John up, drag him out here to feel this peace, this contentment suffusing the whole world.

On second thoughts, he'd probably ruin it by grumbling about being woken up.

The coins rattled loudly in the snack machine; Mary felt a bit guilty about causing such a racket, disturbing the night. She bent to fish the chocolate out of the flap at the bottom, and paused, frozen in place, every muscle tense. Had that been a man's reflection in the glass?

No. The parking lot was still empty, and she hadn't heard anything, either. Slowly, her fingers uncurled from around her gun.

"Paranoid, Roberts," she told herself firmly. For all her earlier reassurance to John, she was still on edge, half-expecting someone to –

Something flickered across the filthy glass again, and she turned, twisted away from her attacker and sprang to her feet. The dark-haired man looked vaguely familiar, but she didn't hesitate to step in and knee him in the groin, shove him backwards, reaching for the gun again, but a hand wrapped around her wrist, trying to stop her, and she turned once more, lightening-quick, twisting her arm out of the second man's grip and pushing him back in a move John had taught her.

The crack of his nose breaking was one of the most satisfying sounds she'd ever heard. He fell against the wall with a choked-off hiss of pain, and Mary drew breath angrily, gathered her concentration, feeling that familiar boil and hum in her blood as she let her ability rise to the surface and seep into her voice, and then all she had to do was use it.

"Leave me-"

But they knew what she could do, it seemed, for a hand clamped over her mouth and nose from behind, holding a cloth that stank of chloroform, before she could finish the sentence. She twisted and struggled and might have succeeded in getting free if it hadn't been for the second man, who stumbled to his feet, eyes blazing with pain and hurt pride and anger, and pinned her arms to her sides, trapping her legs between him and his accomplice, holding her still.

Blackness creeping in at the corners of her vision, dizziness and nausea, and _John_ she thought desperately before slipping into darkness.

* * *

John wasn't sure how much time passed between Mary leaving and him waking up to an empty bed, but it was long enough that her kidnappers were long gone by the time he found her gun lying on the ground by the snack machine. There was a smear of red against the wall above it, and he felt a rush of satisfaction and reassurance. She was alive; she'd fought them.

If asked, he couldn't have said exactly how he knew it was her attacker's blood, not Mary's own.

The police, of course, were no help at all. They were more bothered about filling out missing persons forms, explaining how there was no proof yet of a connection between Mary's disappearance and their room being ransacked yesterday, and, of course, checking into his and Mary's backgrounds. The weary, routine, almost contemptuous way they treated him made John want to hit them all.

In the end, John demanded to use a phone and called Daniel in Colorado.

"Disappeared?" his friend's voice crackled over the line.

"Taken," John corrected himself. "Little help here, Dan. I'm completely in the dark."

Perhaps the panic using his stomach for a trampoline bled through into his voice, because Dan said soothingly, "Milton, Florida, you said? Heard of the place before… OK. Now tell me everything."

John started at the gas station and left nothing out, including the pink silk shirt, the guy at the ice cream box, the young couple they'd briefly chatted with at the pool side, and the consumptive-looking girl who'd served them their burgers later on in the evening.

Dan was silent a while after he'd finished; John could hear the faint rustle of papers being moved about, books being opened. Then, "Johnny? Still there?"

"Where the fuck else would I be?"

Dan chuckled. "Silly question. Right." Still the calm, soothing tone of voice. John was vaguely grateful for it. He didn't even mind Dan calling him _Johnny_, a nickname only Mary dared to use, generally.

"Right," Dan repeated. "So, going with the theory that whoever took Mary did so because of her abilities, we might have a problem."

Hundreds of miles apart or no, John took comfort in that _we_.

"Milton is the site of a so-called node, John. You know what that is?"

"Electrics, isn't it? Latin for knot."

"Usually. In our line of business, it means a place where… well, literally, it's a knot of, of magic, of power. You know how poltergeists and spirits, lesser demons, they can be attracted to certain places because of something having happened there, something so evil it leaves scars in reality itself?"

"Yes," John said slowly.

"Over time, with enough new arrivals, enough new evil, those scars become nodes. Places where power… collects, you might say. Builds up, you know? Points where the veil between worlds becomes thin. The thing is, John, that a number of those points in Europe, and three here in America, have been known to open into Devil's Gates in the past."

Devil's Gates. Doors into Hell itself. Openings between the worlds.

"And the trouble with that is?" John asked hoarsely. "I mean, if it _hasn't_ opened, then no problem, right?"

"You're Azazel's Chosen, John. There's no way to tell what's gonna happen if you and Mary start getting involved with black magic while you're on a node. You're too strong, the both of you. And don't forget what he said in Minneapolis. _Hades and Persephone_. You're his favourites. For all we know, this is the sort of thing he was planning for in the first place. Nodes can often amplify a psychic's abilities, make them more powerful."

John shuddered at the memory of those yellow eyes, those vicious taunts, but nodded into the receiver. "I'll be careful."

"I'm coming to meet you," Dan said. "Don't do anything stupid."

"No," John said, "no, stay where you are. If I can't get Mary back in the time it'd take you to get here…"

… _she'll probably be dead._

He couldn't say it, but Dan understood.

"All right. Better stock up on the first aid kit."

"Funny, Elkins," John said drily, and hung up.

… _she'll probably be dead._

The thought terrified him. He wasn't sure how or when, but over the last year they'd become so intertwined with each other he could no longer imagine a life without her, a world she didn't exist in, somewhere. It just… wasn't possible.

When he rejoined the detectives in the outer rooms, they gave him slightly nervous looks, almost as if they were afraid of him, and he knew instantly they'd checked him out. Father a three-star Marine General, mother Caroline Stendahl, CEO and owner of one of the biggest, richest companies on the West Coast… he hated when people discovered that.

On the other hand, they'd refuse him nothing now. The thought angered him: the scruffy young mechanic who'd been vacationing with his wife, they didn't give a damn about, not really. Caroline Stendahl and Harry Winchester's son, on the other hand, was Not To Be Messed With.

Still, he drew that authority around him, that attitude, his mother's imperious steely glare that he never even realised he had added to his military bearing, the self-confidence his Dad had taught him from before he could remember, and glared round at them.

"Is it all right if I see the security camera footage?"

They practically fell over themselves complying. If Mary had been there, she would have had trouble keeping a straight face, he knew.

There was only the one security camera in the motel parking lot, just over the door to the office. It overlooked the entrance to the lot, and John nearly cursed when he saw the snack machine wasn't in the picture.

Neither was Mary. "She left sometime after one-twenty," John said. "That was about when I fell asleep. Woke up at four-ten, so…"

"Right," the Detective murmured. John hadn't bothered remembering his name.

Around three o'clock, a man passed in front of the camera. The detective froze the film. "Recognise him?"

"No," John lied. "Who is he?"

"Paul Sheppard. Not surprised he's not our guy. A bit crazy, but harmless – a geek, you know? Keeps himself to himself. Lives out by the bay."

"Crazy how? I mean, midnight walks are unusual, sure, but…"

"Paul's just a bit strange, you know? Came here when we were all, oh, twelve or so. Put into foster care, see. Then his foster parents died when he was seventeen, and he got that early majority or whatever it's called. I mean, he's capable and everything, he just has strange ideas about stuff. Interested in weird things, like UFOs and the occult."

"I see," John said slowly.

Paul Sheppard was the pale guy who'd been in the gas station when Mary had used her ability on the pink silk shirt.

* * *

John left the police station with excuses about not being able to sit still and wanting to check again and make sure that nothing had been taken from their room yesterday afternoon; the cops didn't try to stop him. Then all he had to do was find a phone booth and get out the directory.

Every instinct he had was pushing him to go straight up to Sheppard's place and put an end to whatever the son-of-a-bitch was planning, but if something supernatural was going on, it wouldn't happen in the daytime. John very much doubted nodes and black magic were anything resembling inconspicuous. Besides, he wasn't about to walk up to the house in broad daylight. Sheppard would recognise him from the gas station.

Nevertheless, he begrudged every second of the wait, impatient, pacing, doing everything he could _not_ to think about Mary.

Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore.

The closer John got to the address he'd found in the directory, the colder it seemed in the Impala. Goosebumps pricked his arms, and his head hurt; a vague ache behind his eyeballs.

Paul Sheppard's house was in a lonely suburban street, at the edge of town. John found himself blinking several times to try and clear his vision as he pulled the Impala over a few blocks away. The vague ache had become a full-on pounding against the inside of his skull, his mouth was dry, and his skin felt oddly greasy, oily, as if covered by a thin film of filth.

Nodes amplified psychic abilities, Dan had said. Was it possible he was sensing what was happening in that house? Because if so… it was definitely evil. And strong enough that he could probably find it just by closing his eyes and following the source of his discomfort.

He sat in the car for a few minutes, gripping the steering wheel, trying to get some control back, to force the nausea down till he'd found Mary. Then, he got out and started to walk. Sheppard's house wasn't far. John turned into the street it was on and spotted it instantly; the garden was an overgrown, leaf-strewn mess, and the house itself in need of a new paint-job at the least. Practically a cliché.

He snuck into next-door-but-one's back yard and started climbing fences.

The full moon gave him more than enough light to see by, and he moved quick and quiet as a shadow, technique perfected in a hellish blood-soaked jungle over the other side of the world.

Never thought he'd have to use it in small-town America.

No need to climb the last fence into Sheppard's yard. There was a gap between the rickety slats just wide enough for John to slip through, and he was quietly grateful. The fence didn't look like it would have held his weight.

Grass on the other side was calf-high, wet with dew and awkward to sneak through, but again, John crossed the garden with practiced ease. A light was on in the house, the red blinds over the windows making them glow eerily like a demon's eyes. John couldn't make out much, but he was sure the room behind them was A) the kitchen and B) empty.

He switched his gun into his left hand so he could pick the lock, but some instinct made him give the handle a slow turn first, and lo and behold, the door swung open.

John shook his head in silent despair at the boy's stupidity, and slipped inside. The house wasn't quite as dilapidated, but it needed a serious vacuum and tidy. From books to take-aways, nothing seemed to have been put away for years. It reminded him of Katie's littered dorm at college.

He stepped over a large pile of books on the floor and into the sitting room. Streetlights, moon and kitchen lamp gave the place a dim ominous glow; John snapped his flashlight on to get a better look at the books and papers littered across the room. Many were in Latin, Greek or even Hebrew (although those didn't look very well read); they were all of them on magic. Aleister Crowley was the most innocent of them.

The wall opposite the sofa had been decorated with a huge collage of handwritten pages, copies of medieval woodcuts depicting hell or witches' Sabbats, drawings of Satanic symbols and one large piece of paper in the middle that had been torn away, its edges still glued to the wall. The whole thing looked much like one of John's own research sessions. He couldn't see the centerpiece anywhere in the room, but what remained was bad enough.

Devil's Gates, doorways to other dimensions, Faustian pacts, witchlore… this Sheppard kid was messing with some pretty serious black magic. None of the lore John could see here would get him anything less than an eternity in Hell.

While he was reading, there came the sounds of movement in the hallway, quiet voices, the creak of the stairs. John snapped the flashlight off and moved back to the doorframe, gun at the ready. Sheppard was just coming out of a door further down the hall, meeting a guy who'd come down the stairs. A third man followed Sheppard out of the room, looking nervous.

"Is it safe?" upstairs-guy asked, uncertain.

Sheppard glared at him. "Of course. I told you, all we need is the right conduit. She's so much stronger than anyone else, and she's absorbing all the energy. Now all we need to do is shape it, harness it, and release it in the direction we like."

Conduit? Mary? For what?

"Harness it? This isn't like taking an attack dog to the park, pointing it at some random guy and saying 'kill', Paul," the third guy hissed. "What good will this do us if we're dead when the ritual's complete?"

"We won't be dead!" Sheppard snapped. "We'll be gods! Do you have any idea how much power this will give us? What we can gain by this? The control we'll have over them?"

He spoke in the fervent tones of the fanatic preaching to the converted, eyes alight, the movements of his hands jerky and excited. John felt a shiver of unease run through him; the guy seemed half-mad.

"All right," upstairs-guy said at last. "Let's go downstairs, and… harness."

John let out a hiss of frustration when they locked the door behind them. It cost him valuable time to pick the thing, but he was afraid to just kick it down; interrupting the guys holding Mary's life in their hands like that probably wasn't a smart idea.

The door opened onto a flight of stairs leading into the basement. Naturally. They hugged the wall, a wooden railing on the other side, and took a sharp turn in the corner, a small landing four steps up from the ground. John's boots scuffed the stone, barely audible, as he came down them. He paused on the landing, and took stock of the scene in front of him.

The two guys whose names he didn't know sat opposite each other in either side of a Devil's Trap chalked on the stone floor. It took up almost all of the available floor-space. Sheppard sat directly in front of the stairs, back to John, blocking his view of the circle, chanting softly. The basement was lit by candles, of course, but John was a bit surprised they hadn't bothered with a black altar.

Then Sheppard's chanting rose to a brief crescendo, and as it died down again, the other two joined in. The chalk lines on the floor seemed to glow briefly, and inside the double circle of men and chalk lines, someone groaned, twisted, uncurling themselves so that John could see them past Sheppard.

It took him a moment to realise it was Mary.

She was sweating, face tight with exertion, body twisting ceaselessly as if trying to escape something.

"Stop it," she coughed out hoarsely. "Don't. You even know what you're messing with?"

"Of course they don't," John said, voice loud and harsh in the dim room, cutting through the chanting. The guy on the right jerked back in surprise, breaking the circle and interrupting the chant at the same time.

"What are you doing here?"

"Gate-crashing," John said angrily, moving down the stairs. Sheppard's head had jerked round to look at him, but he and the third guy wearing the same alarmed looks, but neither of them had stopped chanting. As John got closer, he thought Sheppard's look changed from surprised to triumphant, and raised the gun, aiming for Sheppard's head.

Nice clean shot that would kill him instantly.

Sheppard smirked at him, never once interrupting that monotonous chant.

"Too late now," the guy on the right said softly. "It's gone too far. She's saturated with it, with the power of the node."

John swung the gun round and shot the third guy, the one on the left. No hesitation, no worrying about it, just point and pull the trigger, putting a bullet through his temple. He collapsed sideways, breaking the circle, blood and brains seeping out onto the stone floor.

That got _everyone's_ attention.

Sheppard and the other man scrambled to their feet, horrified and panicked, gawping from John to their friends body and back. Silence at last… except for Mary's low groan of pain.

"John?"

"Right here," he called back. "Hang in there, love."

"Are you mad?" Sheppard whispered, dragging his eyes from the body in the corner to look John in the face for the first time. "You've broken the circle – interrupted the ritual!"

John looked back at Mary. The chalk lines were glowing again, dim but steady this time, a reddish sickly light filling the room. Not a Devil's Trap, at all, or rather, a modified one. John couldn't recognise half the symbols scrawled inside it, around the edges.

"Good," he said to Sheppard. "I don't know what the hell you're playing at –"

"Playing! Idiot, this isn't playing! We knew what we were doing. There were controls, restrictions I needed to set up! It would have been a doorway only I could open. You've blown it open! Created a – a chasm!"

He really was panicked, eyes darting this way and that, hands trembling, whole body poised to run. John got the sense it wasn't the gun in his hands that Sheppard was afraid of.

Behind him, Mary sucked in a harsh unsteady breath, movements slowing down. "God… God, no." Her eyes fluttered closed, brow furrowing in concentration. John fought down the urge to drop his gun and run to her.

"What did you do, you sonovabitch?" he demanded, eyes on Mary still. The third guy tried to get past him while he was watching her, but John caught his movement out of the corner of his eye, and simply shot his kneecap out.

Sheppard flinched at the gunshot, the screams of his friend, but didn't move, or say anything.

"Well?" John repeated, voice low and angry and as intimidating as he could manage.

"It's a portal," Sheppard said at last. "A doorway. To Hell. This town, it's built on a node, a point of power. Your girlfriend's a powerful psychic, but I'm guessing you knew that, huh? The energy, she's just… she's soaking it up. Like a sponge. When… when the time was right, I would have completed the ritual and directed the power collected in her to make a crack, a doorway that only I could control."

He was serious. He knew what he was doing. John had half-expected him to be a kid messing about without any real idea of what he'd gotten into, but no. Sheppard knew, and he didn't care.

Suddenly, John wanted to throw up. His hands shook and his eyes widened and all he could see was Alex' face, features spattered with blood and twisted in agony, cold and lifeless and unmoving.

So much death in the world already, and this boy wanted to make it even worse?

"Why?" he wanted to know, barely audible over the other man's sobs in the corner.

But Sheppard did hear him, and his eyes widened.

"Why? Why not? Hm? Why the fuck not? What has humanity ever done for me, other than beaten and starved and scorned me? Nothing. Ever. So when I found my foster mother's books, her dirty little secret… I started to learn. And soon, I could see a way out. A way to get free. So, I took it."

How did one maltreated little boy turn into this fervent, fanatical monster?

"You'll destroy us all."

"No. You did that, interrupting the ritual. I had restrictions in place. I could have controlled anything that came through, made it do my bidding."

"How do I reverse this?"

Sheppard sneered. "You don't. you can't. it's too late. The ritual was meant to end with her sacrifice – her death would have released the power and let me control it. But you've blown all our safeguards to Hell, pardon the expression, and now, everything is just going to… blow up."

John wasn't sure if it was the sneer, or Mary's harsh laboured breathing, or the nausea still rushing over him, but, "I see," he said, soft and slow, nodding understanding.

Then he shot him.

Sheppard dropped instantly, dead before he hit the floor.

"Get outta here," John snarled at the last guy, sobbing and trembling in the corner, clutching at his shattered knee. He sucked in a breath and started to crawl, terrified wide-blown eyes not leaving John.

But John neither noticed his leaving nor cared. He'd already stepped over Sheppard's body and into the glowing circle, kneeling beside Mary, still and silent now but for those awful tearing breaths.

Her skin was soaked in sweat, and so hot it burned his hands. Almost, he thought she was shining like the circle around them, the colour of a flashlight shone through fingers, a patina of red light laid over her skin.

"Mary," he said. "Mary, please. Wake up, love."

She didn't hear him, didn't respond, didn't notice when he caught her shoulders, lifted her into his lap, shook her desperately, slapped her hot flushed face. She just lay there, unmoving, burning up from inside.

Finally, in sheer desperation, John bent his head and kissed her, quick and chaste, a mere press of his mouth to hers.

It worked, in a way. As their mouths met, he felt a spark of connection, a flicker of… something between them, not physical but mental, as though their minds rather than their mouths had touched.

Nodes amplify psychic's abilities. And if even half of what Sheppard said was true, then Mary should have so much power inside her right now she could probably destroy the world herself.

Was it possible she was telepathic, now?

He drew back. Her eyes were open now, but there was no spark of awareness in them, nothing but emptiness, dull green glass instead of the dancing fires he loved. Mary's eyes could go from gleaming dark gold to sun-dappled green to the deep, endless emerald of a mountain lake, but right now they were as shallow and lifeless as a doll's.

And yet, that spark of connection…

He kissed her again, deeper this time, tongue sweeping into her mouth and back in firm strokes, exploring a mouth he knew by heart, trying to provoke a reaction.

Between one second and the next, she was kissing him back, arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him down to her. John settled over her, weight on his elbows, their bodies touching from chest to knees, and _reached_ for that elusive connection.

It was as if he'd been freed from his body; not that he couldn't still feel it, but it simply didn't matter anymore. _Here,_ she seemed to whisper to him, and he could see the power Sheppard had summoned like a pulsing tangle of sickly red light inside her, feeding off her, sinking into her, growing larger with every second that slipped by. All Mary's concentration, all her strength, was centered on holding it, containing it, keeping it locked inside her.

She'd been fighting it since the beginning, he realised, for hours now, struggling against it like it was a live thing invading her body and trying to take over her, claw its way out of her.

John knew that feeling: the same thing happened every time he used his telekinesis, like a separate entity sitting in his gut, waiting to pounce on him and destroy him. But he'd always been able to control it, force it down – as had Mary. This, though… he didn't know how they were going to control this build-up of raw, utterly alien power.

Shepard's restrictions would have bound it, shaped it, brought it under control. Then, with Mary's death, the power would have been... released, yes, like water from a dam, but channelled into a funnel, forced down a very specific path. Without those restrictions, it would simply build up inside her, growing more and more by the minute, unitl finally her body simply couldn't hold it anymore, and it all came tearing out of her.

John reached out to Mary tentatively, feeling like an intruder in her body. He knew somehow that in the real world, their positions hadn't changed a whit, but to all intents and purposes, he was sharing her body with her right now.

She caught his hand, metaphorically speaking, and pulled him in, linking with him somehow so that he could wrap himself around her, let his fresh strength bleed into her, helping her fight this thing inside her, this almost-living knot of power.

Perfection, this link, this union between them, nothing held back, no reservations, a connection of mind and body and soul so complete, so flawless, that John could no longer imagine being without it, existing without her wrapped around him, tied up in him, _inside_ him.

As for Mary, she was floating in bliss, warmth and comfort rushing through her, John's strength feeding her own. She'd never doubted for a moment that he'd come for her, had known for months how much he loved her, but this! This faultless, flawless joining of everything they were, this completeness... she groped for a word, vaguely aware that it was a rather ridiculous thing to do right now, but finally had it. Consummation. That's what this was: a consummation. To make complete; to become perfected.

_Consummation._ A contented little whisper in the warm languid dark of their shared bed. She could feel John's awed assent.

But they weren't in bed now, naked in the dark and one another's arms. Mary didn't want to look, didn't want to feel it, but it was still there, that knot of energy inside her. She couldn't ignore it much longer; it was getting too strong. There was something else there too...

_What's happening to us? _

John wasn't sure if she spoke out loud or not, if they were still kissing or not, but either way, he answered her in the same manner.

_The node. It's magnifying our abilities._

_Go figure. He cut my arm… used my blood for something._

_Sonovabitch._

_What now?_

_He was trying to open a Devil's Gate. Crazy as Justin was._

_He wasn't far from succeeding. Can't you feel the cracks?_

And suddenly, John could. Like wounds in the world, thin red cracks in reality, seeping evil, ever widening.

The power accumulating inside Mary was enough to blow them so far open they'd never be closed again.

_What do we do?_ he asked anxiously.

_I think… Sheppard took this power to open a doorway, right? So why can't we use it to close one?_

_You mean – plug the cracks?_

The conversation, John suspected, had taken no real time at all. He sensed Mary's assent; and then, instead of pushing that pulsing knot of power back, keeping it contained, they were unraveling it, shaping it, like weaving a rope, passing it back and forth until it was the right shape, the right length, channeling strip after strip through Mary's exhausted body to plug the holes in the universe itself.

Like picking apart a knot of string, drawing one long piece out at a time and returning them to their rightful place. Like rebuilding a wall, like patching a hole in an article of clothing, like repairing a punctured tire, like glueing a broken piece of wood back together.

It might have taken hours or minutes, that back-breaking mental labour. Neither John nor Mary could tell, could see or feel or sense anything beyond their shared connection, their slow controlled shaping of a power that should have torn them both apart. As the knot shrank, so the red cracks began to fade away, one by one, until John wasn't sure if they'd ever been there. Perhaps he'd just imagined it. Perhaps both knot and cracks had been a hallucination…

When the last one finally winked out, the world around them seemed to shudder briefly and then settle back into place with a relieved little _click_.

Just like that, John snapped back into his own body, the connection with Mary severed as neatly as if cut by a knife, and he became painfully aware of two things: firstly, that he was bereft and alone and incomplete without her, and secondly, that he was still lying on a cold stone floor kissing the girl he loved in the immediate proximity of two dead bodies.

He yanked away – or tried to. Mary's arms were still around his neck, and their noses bumped.

Her eyes were a deep, shining green.

"Nice place to make out in," she said, her voice low and hoarse. Her skin was still wet with sweat, but it no longer burned so unnaturally hot, and the tremours that shook her body now were of pure human exhaustion.

"First thing I could think of that was sure to get your attention," John said, surprised to find his voice was equally hoarse.

Mary gave a long weary sigh. "The arrogance of you."

John moved to his knees beside her and lifted her into his arms. She pressed herself against him, forehead resting against his neck, shoulders tensing briefly with the fierce hug she gave him. He stood up, a little unsteady, but still, and she raised her head to look around.

"You killed them?"

"Yep."

No guilt. Not this time. Not over the men who'd tried to kill Mary.

He thought he heard regret in her second sigh, but she didn't say anything as he carried her up the steps and out of the house. To his surprise, it was still dark out, and no one saw them walk the two blocks to the Impala – or if they did, they had no reason to suspect anything strange was happening. He was almost as exhausted as Mary, arms trembling by the time they reached the car.

A trail of blood led from the stairs through the hall and lounge out onto the front porch, and then tapered off on the garden path. John had no intention of searching for the guy. Ever.

Four o'clock in the morning, the clock in the car said. Mary practically snuggled into the Impala's passenger seat. He wanted to drive back to Sheppard's place and set it on fire, destroy all the evidence just to make sure, but it was far too much effort. For a few moments, he sat there, watching her.

Eventually, her eyes opened. "Go on. I'll be fine."

He smiled. "You're still mind-reading."

"No. But I did teach you well."

John threw his head back and laughed. Then he reached into the back seat for the lighter fluid.

* * *

Three days later, they were at Dan's, getting yelled at.

"_You plugged it!"_ Dan shouted. "What do you mean, you _plugged_ it? You can't go around plugging holes in reality like they're a leak in the Impala's gas tank, for Chrissakes!"

"Actually," Mary said slowly, "it's probably more accurate to say we put what Sheppard had taken out and forced into me back where it belonged."

"Forced into you?" Dan said, frowning.

"He used my blood for something. To create a link between me and the node, I'm guessing."

"Well, there is a belief that a psychic's powers are held in their blood," Dan told them, calmer now there was a mystery to unravel. "It's possible he somehow enabled the power gathered there to seep into your blood. But what I really don't understand is that connection you described between the two of you."

"Neither do we," John said. "I just – suddenly, I was in Mary's head with her, could help her hold that stuff in."

"I wonder if there's a relationship between your powers and the node," Dan said thoughtfully. "I mean, if we're going with the theory that – our yellow-eyed friend actually _gave_ you these abilities rather than just manipulated powers you already had, then that would make this a lot easier to understand. Both of you would have already had an affinity of sorts with both the node and each other that would really facilitate the two connections - one between the two of you and one between Mary and the node."

"Dan," John interrupted his rambling thoughts, watching Mary's still-pale face worriedly, "can we talk about this later? Mary's still tired."

"Don't you dare coddle me," she snapped. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are," Dan drawled, stepping in to stop the impending argument. They both looked exhausted, he realised now, drained, pushed beyond their limits. "Upstairs, both of you. Go sleep."

"If you call Ben, I'll kill you," Mary threatened.

Later that day, after a long sleep, dinner, and much theorizing, John found her on the back porch, sitting in the fading sunlight and coaxing soft sad notes out of her guitar. She'd hauled it out of Mark's attic the last time they'd been in Connecticut and packed it into the Impala's trunk, and he loved to hear her play.

"Nick Drake?" John teased, knowing perfectly well she was playing Joni Mitchell.

"_Everything comes and goes_," she sang softly, "_Marked by lovers, and styles of clothes_."

"Bit sad for an evening like this one."

"I was feeling contemplative."

"Oh. Dangerous."

"Are you mocking me, Johnny?"

"Know any CSN?" he evaded the question, laughing.

"As in _Suite: Judy Blue Eyes_?"

"As in, _Guinevere, had green eyes, like yours, my lady like yours_."

She laughed softly, turned away, long gold curls hiding her faint blush. "Making you my Lancelot?"

"They parted," he said. "Guinevere and Lancelot parted after the final battle against Mordred, never to meet again in this life."

"But we are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory," she quoted softly.

John laughed. "Promise?"

Mary looked up at him and smiled. "Of course."

It was all he needed. All either of them needed.


	7. vi: time is the essence

**Time is the essence**

Picture this: early morning, still mostly dark out, a small, quiet motel in Pennsylvania, a 67 Chevy Impala in the parking lot, a darkened room. Chair toppled over, camera moving past the clothes strewn across the room, the boots tangled in jeans, the blouse with three buttons missing, the underwear... pan up at the bed, a blonde girl lying on her side, propped up on one elbow, hair hanging mussed and tousled around her shoulders, watching her lover sleep appreciatively…

Mary fell back into the pillows with a snort of amusement at the picture she'd just painted; but there was no denying their room looked like _that_ sort of movie set. Maybe all couples' did in the aftermath of make-up sex. Who knew?

Beside her, John stirred sleepily, and she smirked at him. He had a habit of sleeping on his stomach, sprawled out across the bed, and she usually curled up half-underneath him, his arm curling around her waist, so he started awake when he realised she wasn't there now.

Florida had made them both nervous about being separated.

The tension ran out of him again when he saw her, and reached out to pull her close. The other thing Florida had done was leave them both with little flickers of that faultless connection they'd shared on the node, tiny echoes of… of _completeness_, in conversations held in glances and a gesture, in brief touches and expressions that spoke volumes.

When they made love it blazed up in full, an all-consuming exquisite perfection that surely wasn't meant for mere mortals to know.

It didn't stop them fighting over the silliest things, as yesterday afternoon had proven, but both Mary and John were more aware than ever before that they were stuck with each other now; that there would never be anyone else for either of them. They'd been in love before. Now they were bound together, inextricably, irreversibly.

"What is it?" John's low drawl interrupted Mary's thoughts.

"Hmmm?"

"Second ago, you were lost in thought. Now you're smirking. Something's up."

"I wasn't smirking!"

"Really."

"And anyway. How do you know I was lost in thought? I might have been half-asleep, and you just woke me up."

"Your nose gets this adorable little crinkle when you're lost in thought."

She huffed and pushed at him; he laughed, held on tighter. "Well?"

"It's been nearly two years since we met," Mary said, looking up at him. John grimaced a little. The anniversary of Cold Oak was hardly his favourite day of the year. They'd spent the last one at Mark's place to distract themselves from the memories.

"You wanna head up to Connecticut?"

Mary shrugged. "I don't mind. Really. It's just – are we gonna be doing this forever? Hunting and hiding and running from anything that looks like a demon attack?"

"We haven't been running from demons," John protested. "Have we? We've just been… avoiding them."

She cleared her throat, held up a hand above them to count off her fingers. "Wendigo. Three poltergeists. A Crocotta in Montana. Two covens, both relatively harmless idiots. Numerous vengeful spirits, a couple death omens, a ghoul, and an incubus. And that's just since last spring. Not counting the stuff we hunted directly after leaving Dan's. But there are no demons on the list, Johnny."

"We're on _their_ list," John pointed out. "Their _hit list_. I think staying away from them is a pretty good idea, don't you?"

Mary fixed him with her best _don't give me that crap_ look. John was much better at them, she had to admit.

Hers was good enough to do the trick, though. He sighed. "OK, OK, I admit it. It's Ben's pretty good idea. And Dan's. And the General's. Or it would be the General's pretty good idea if he knew anything about it. Fall back, regroup, gather your resources and then hit back."

"We've fallen, grouped, and gathered, but there's been precious little hitting," Mary said, a touch acidly. "We've closed a Devil's Gate for fuck's sake. Dan can mutter about doom and gloom and connections to demons and our abilities being somehow in tune with cracks in the very fabric of reality as much as he likes. We're pretty damn powerful, John."

John sighed. "I know. I mean, it's pretty obvious now. But I – look. Can we just be careful? We're talking war here, Mary."

"Maybe we should be," she suggested softly. "Hey. Don't chicken out on me now. This is all your fault, you know."

"My fault?" He sounded indignant.

"Yup. Exclusively. I'm selfish, John; selfish and cowardly. All I wanted out of my research before Cold Oak was a way to reverse what he'd done to me. But then there was you, with all that anger and strength and _purpose_, and you made me see that maybe we should be fighting this just because we can. Not because it's the only way we'll survive."

He choked a laugh into her hair, shoulders shaking. "I can't do this, Mary. I'm the coward here, OK? I've fought one war already, and that was bad enough. Ask Katie; she'll tell you it just about destroyed me. I can't – I don't know what I'd do if this – if you-"

Her mouth on his cut him off, a deep fierce kiss that left them both breathless.

"But that's just it," Mary whispered. "That's exactly it. I've lost more to that bastard than you ever have, and now that there's not _me_ anymore – now that there's _us_ instead –"

This time, he kissed her; and after that all further words went unspoken. Last night had been quick and loving and tender, all _how could you do that to me_ and _I'm sorry, I love you_ and _we'll never fight again, I promise_; but now was almost angry, hard and fierce and bruising, _we're alive, we're together, nothing else matters_ and _I can't ever loose you_. They both wore the marks of it for days after, bruises deep in Mary's hips and scratches down John's back that ached and stung with _yes_ and _please_ and _Jesus, more_ and the utter perfection of each other's names.

* * *

"Never any sign of a break-in, but the girl is missin', and their rooms have been torn apart, every time," the girl behind the counter said, shaking her head in glooming enjoyment of the news. "Always blondes, too. You wanna be careful, honey."

Mary took the bag of doughnuts and was about to form a suitable reply (along the lines of 'better dye my hair then') when John came up behind her, hands catching her hips, pulling her back against his solid warmth.

"Careful of what?" he asked lazily.

"Men like you, always trying to take advantage of me," Mary said, stepping away from temptation. It didn't work; he just tugged her back again.

"That's right, blame it all on me," he drawled, mouth resting just by her ear. "You didn't enjoy yourself at all last night."

Mary _hated _that she blushed. Blushed! It was embarrassing. John did it on purpose.

"Um," the doughnut girl said, interrupting the look they were sharing, "Your change, ma'am."

"Thank you," Mary said sweetly, pocketed the coins, and then caught a handful of John's shirt and dragged him out of the shop. "Did you have to do that?"

"Make you blush? Yes. Definitely. Is this what the doughnut girl was talking about?"

_This_ was the front page of the local newspaper, appearing from inside some pocket or other on his leather jacket. _Kidnapper strikes again_, screamed the headline, rather unimaginatively. Three girls had been kidnapped over the last week; the latest one just yesterday. All seventeen, all blonde. Their parents had slept through the whole thing, waking the next morning to find their only daughter gone and her room turned inside-out.

"She'll be so disappointed you didn't notice her name-tag," Mary quipped, referring to the doughnut girl.

John took that as a yes. "I was busy ogling you."

She blushed again. He loved making her do that: self-assured, outspoken, unshakeable Mary Roberts blushing like a schoolgirl because of him was something of a turn-on.

Then her eyes narrowed, and he realised he'd been smirking.

"You wanna go talk to the parents? Or head back to the motel and put your overactive imagination to use?"

"Door number two sounds about perfect."

"_Men!_ Those girls could still be alive, you know." She yanked the newspaper out of his hands and crossed the road to the Impala. John stayed put to watch her walk for a second or two, and then sauntered after her.

* * *

Predictably, the parents of the latest victim were torn up and confused and no help at all, so the police station was the next stop.

The young deputy who spoke to them was more than a little impressed at getting his name in a newspaper – a real newspaper, as he put it – and was thus very talkative. No, they hadn't found prints. No signs of a break-in, nothing was taken other than the girl… all in all, it was as if the kidnapper could walk through walls.

"You could name him," the deputy said, leaning towards Mary a little. "You know, some really cool name, like, uh, the York Ghost Snatcher or something…"

"Yes," John said, struggling to keep a straight face. "Yes, I'm sure – the editors, you know? But, uh…"

"The editors who will kill us if we don't get this story in," Mary added. She didn't have the heart to slap him down properly; the boy looked too much like an over-eager puppy hoping for scraps. "So, yeah. Better run. Thanks so much for your help, Deputy Wilson."

"No problem, ma'am. Free press and all that. Say, uh… you say you're partners…"

"Every time I propose to her, she turns me down," John said without so much as cracking a smile.

"Oh. Uh… well, I –"

"Marriage is overrated, you know?" Mary explained earnestly. "Outdated institution of the reigning patriarchy. I don't see why I need to be married to someone to _commit_."

The deputy fled.

Outside, they both collapsed helplessly, breathless with laughter. John pulled himself together first; Mary was sitting on the trunk of the Impala, heels on the bumper, head on her knees, shoulders shaking.

"It was worth it for that last bit alone," she choked out in a muffled voice.

"But otherwise utterly pointless," John said. "I mean, we-"

"Hey. Hey, are you the journalists who just spoke to Jimmy?"

The sharp, nagging voice came with a hand on John's elbow and belonged to a girl about the same age as the victims, dark-haired and pretty – or she would have been pretty if she weren't dressed like a fifties housewife. Mary felt instantly sorry for her.

"Yeah," John said, eyeing the fingers still digging into his elbow. "Yeah, we are."

"You're looking for Melissa?"

The latest victim. "You were – you're friends?" Mary asked.

The girl nodded, bit her lip. It was John who prompted her into speech by asking "D'you know something about her disappearance?"

"Yes. No. I don't know! I mean, Daddy, he won't let me talk about it. Thinks it's – thinks I'm lying, maybe."

"Can you tell us?" Mary said, leaning towards her a little, and the girl's concerned look got a slightly spoiled, rather pissy edge.

"Yeah, well. It's meant to be a secret."

"You told your Dad," John pointed out, slowly and a bit confused. Mary rolled her eyes. He wasn't too good at deciphering girl-talk.

"Between us," the girl said. "The others and me. I told Dad 'cause – well, they're _missing_, right? Only he doesn't want it getting out because they're all _important_, the parents, see, and it'd be _embarrassing_ or something, only I can't see how that matters if they get back _alive_, only Jen's Dad, he's running for _Mayor_ and stuff like that would _damage_ his _chances_-"

John turned to Mary with an almost panicked look. The girl still had a hold of his elbow.

Mary smirked at him. "Serves you right for the thing in the doughnut shop."

"Oh, sure, laugh it up. At least stop the italics?"

"Are you even _listening_ to me? My Dad would _kill_ me if this got into the papers," the girl said angrily. Mary got off the trunk, caught her wrist, and calmly pried her hand off John's arm.

"Yes, of course. You're privy to a dirty little secret of the missing girls that you're not allowed to tell, and your Dad, who's the Sheriff, I assume, doesn't want it getting out because that would cause certain people quite a bit of embarrassment. Sound about right?"

The girl glared silently at the long slender fingers that gripped her wrist, and twisted experimentally.

Mary didn't move. Or take her eyes off the kid's face. Any earlier sympathy she'd harboured for her was rapidly disappearing.

Finally, the little brat gave up. "If it helps you find them… they used to go to this bar. Outside of town. Really horrible place, like, bikers and people like that."

She might have been talking about roaches from her tone of voice.

"Who was there?" Mary said softly.

"Jen. Sally. Melissa. And Dinah Summers. She's still around, God knows why."

Mary released her wrist and gave her a little shove. "Thanks for your help, princess. Now run along, go do your homework, yeah?"

She got a poisonous glare in return, but the kid left. As she neared the police station, the Sheriff appeared in the doorway and shouted, "Anna! Who the hell were you talking to?"

"Nice kid," John said dryly.

"If we ever have any, I think I want boys," Mary said glumly. Then, her brain catching up with what she'd just said, "Um – that is –"

John hooked an arm over her shoulders and steered her to the nearest phone booth. "Not if. When."

She twined her fingers through his, kissed the inside of his wrist, and he felt her smile curving her lips against his skin.

"She's just a spoiled brat who's not quite brave enough to be as wild as the others," she said.

"Oh, you know the type?"

"They used to tag around after me all the time."

He laughed as they squeezed into the phone booth and hauled out the directory. Mary was only too happy to lean back against his chest, head just fitting on his shoulder.

Dinah Summers was quickly found, the page torn out and tucked into John's jeans pocket - via a maneuver he promised himself he'd make Mary regret sometime later. Only then did she push open the glass door and let them both out, still smirking.

"We'll go see Miss Summers, get the address, and then you can hustle pool while I talk to the barmaid," Mary said, a slightly disapproving note creeping into her voice now. John climbed into the Impala and grinned at her.

"I've seen you pick some rich businessman's pockets like you grew up in the slums of London under Fagin himself, but this bothers you?"

"Stealing is one thing. Hustling people is sneaking and underhanded and… and dishonourable. I can't imagine where you went to high school to pick up something like that."

"Same sort of place these girls did, by the looks of it," John said calmly.

"You poor neglected little rich kid," she said in mocking sympathy.

John looked across at her, indignant. "I've told you about my mother, right?"

"Johnny. Seriously. You grew up in a mansion, you've got acceptance letters into the most expensive colleges in the country, you lived in London for a year when you were seven and you have a _trust fund_. I grew up on a farm in Connecticut, the first time I left the state was for my parent's funeral in Oregon, and there will never be enough money for me to go to college even if I wanted to because while my parents weren't poor per se, the money they left me is _long gone_. Forgive me for not feeling sorry for you."

He looked away silently, admitting defeat, thoughtful and a bit sad. Mary drummed her fingers on the steering wheel.

"Don't you dare feel sorry for me," she said, never taking her eyes off the road.

John drew a breath. "Need to take the next left, Guinevere."

Talking of mansions… Dinah Summers lived in a huge white-bricked house with at least three stories, an immaculate front lawn and gravel drive, and one of those fake Greek porches with pillars and a triangular roof. Mary took one look and knew instantly that the girl was the ringleader of the little gang.

It was totally irrational of course, but wasn't she meant to be psychic?

There would be a maid or housekeeper to open the door, a sweeping staircase, stone floors, huge rooms, expensive designer furniture, maybe a few paintings. Cold, impersonal, and very rich.

John was still wearing an oddly far-away look as they crossed the gravel, and she stopped on the porch steps, turned to look at him. Mary wasn't much shorter than he was, and the single extra step put her on a level with him.

"You still with me?"

His eyes narrowed a little and he smiled, that full warm smile that made her go all warm and shivery inside. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

Mary frowned at him a little, something in his voice she couldn't make out, but he just kissed her, brief but almost possessive, firm press of his mouth on hers, and went to ring the doorbell.

The maid – a girl about their own age, dark and pretty – answered the door. Mary spoke to her in perfect Spanish, and John stood by in silent, uncomprehending astonishment as the two girls chatted for a few minutes before Rosa stepped outside the door and pulled it almost shut.

"You want to know about the missing girls?" she said in accented, but very good English, eyes on John.

"Uh, yeah. We're reporters-"

"Mary told me. Don't try asking Dinah; she'll lie. Her parents are good people, but they spoil her, you know? Never really know what she's up to."

"Do you know where this bar is they go to?" Mary asked. Rosa nodded. "I drive past it on my way to my parent's house in Spring Grove. It's right on the road – not sure if it even has a name. I've seen them in the parking lot a few times on my way past on a Friday."

Mary was about to ask her if she'd ever seen anyone with the girls when the door was pushed open behind them, and Dinah herself appeared.

"Rosa? Who are you talking to?"

She saw Mary first, and gave her a very familiar look of utter disdain before locking on John, bottom lip caught between her teeth, hip jutting out, arms crossed under her breasts. For a brief moment, Mary felt sixteen again, acutely aware of the hole in her jeans, the unflattering sweater that had seen better days, her messy hair and lack of make-up, the scrapes across her knuckles from helping with the Impala's oil change. Awkward and ungainly and oddly huge compared to this slender slip of a girl, perfectly manicured and impeccably dressed.

"We were just asking directions," she said sweetly, and Dinah dragged her eyes away from John rather reluctantly. "Got a little turned around on the way outta town."

Then she looked back at Rosa and exchanged goodbyes and thank-yous in perfect Spanish, while Dinah glared and John looked amused and awkward.

"Thanks for your help," he said to Rosa, and she grinned at him as they turned away.

Mary was smirking again.

"Hilarious," John said. "Really. Laugh-out-loud funny."

"Twice in one day," Mary retorted, getting an odd sort of satisfaction out of the way her boots crunched on the gravel, as if the harsh noise were somehow proving her point. "That's gotta be a record." Not that she was entirely sure what point there was to prove, but that didn't matter.

"And your deputy?"

"Wasn't jailbait."

"Bah."

"Now who's lost in thought?"

"I ever tell you –" John paused briefly as they climbed in the Impala, slammed the doors "- I ever tell you Mother spent years trying to hook me up with one of her business partner's daughters? Adela Burton. Did the same for Katie, like she was Queen Victoria, forming pan-European alliances. Girls like that make me jittery."

"So getting involved with me hasn't done you any favours," Mary said, amused. John looked over at her sharply, but her posture was relaxed, fingers curled lightly round the steering wheel, smile still pulling at her mouth, eyebrow arched a little.

The tremor of fear and nervousness she'd once had over subjects like this was gone completely.

"I have this ridiculous aversion to falling in love with a girl just to do myself favours," he said.

"See, that's cause you're an idealistic little fool. Now, if you hadn't _told_ me your mother was _Caroline Stendahl_, I'da left you in the hospital in Wyoming."

John started to grin. "Keep tellin' yourself that, darlin'."

* * *

Rosa hadn't been exaggerating when she'd said the bar was right on the road. Mary and John had both spent most of their teenage years in places like these, albeit for very different reasons, and they sauntered inside without the slightest bit of self-consciousness. It was roomy inside, dark and dingy, _Dancing Days_ blasting through the speakers and mostly drowning out the low murmur of voices, the click of pool balls and clink of glasses.

The patrons were nearly all men, hunched wearily over their drinks or talking quietly with friends. The few women there looked equally hard and unwelcoming – even the ones dressed invitingly. John and Mary's entrance caused a ripple of heads turning, curious looks lighting up faces before the owner decided the emotion took too much effort and went back to their drink. One or two of the younger, drunker guys stared openly at Mary, but she ignored them all as they made their way to the bar.

"Get you folks somethin'?" the bartender asked, eyes lingering a little too long on Mary. Sizing her up? Comparing her?

"Hope so," she said, meeting his stare head-on. "We're here about the girls? The ones who were kidnapped?"

The bartender gave her a jerking nod. "Thought you were one of 'em at first. All looked alike."

"Except I'm twenty-three, and they're seventeen."

"Fake IDs aren't hard to come by."

His flat indifference was like a brick wall, hard and impenetrable.

"What can you tell us about them?" John asked. The bartender looked at him, eyebrows climbing, and John's mouth set in an angry line. Mary could tell he was itching to lean over and punch the bastard, and so she was quite proud of him when he pulled out his wallet instead.

When a suitable amount had been deposited on the counter, the bartender shrugged at them. "Not all that much to tell. Started comin' here, three weeks ago? Loud, flirty. Not that everybody minded, of course. But most people, they come in here for a quiet drink, you know? Not for a floor show."

"So they made a bit of a spectacle of themselves," Mary said.

"A bit? Damn proud of themselves they were, escapin' Daddy's mansion, slummin' it down here. Claire Frampton over there drove them home once when they'd all downed so much they couldn't walk in a straight line to save their lives. That was a day or so before the first one went missin'."

John, grateful for the excuse to look away from the conversation, spotted Claire buffing a table in the corner by the jukebox, empty beer bottle in her free hand. A few years older than he was, red-haired and nice-looking.

He and Alex had once been those very same kids, slipping out of the house at night to go looking for an adventure, some excitement, a place they could be… more themselves.

He and Alex could so easily have disappeared the same way as these girls. The thought sent shivers down his spine.

"Well," he said at last, looking back at the bartender, "thanks for your help."

The bartender shot him a suspicious look, trying to detect any sarcasm, but John had forgotten about him already. Mary bit back a giggle and followed him over to Claire.

"-wanted to ask you about Dinah Summers and her friends," John was saying. "You drove them home the night before the kidnappings started, right?"

Claire put the beer bottle down on a table, looking angry. "Just what exactly are you accusing me of?"

Up close, her face was hard, closed-off and set in stone, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Being one of the last people to see them before the kidnappings," Mary said. Claire looked at her, the sharp lines of her face softening.

"I – sorry. It's just – they weren't exactly popular, you know?"

"We heard," Mary said slowly, watching her intently. Something about her stance, her voice, her eyes… especially her eyes. Mary couldn't put her finger on it, but it made her uneasy. Felt off, wrong.

"Yeah, well. I drove them home 'cause – I mean, they were drunker than ever. Didn't really want them to get hurt, or – or anything."

Both John and Mary could easily imagine what 'anything' Claire meant.

"You go to the police?" John asked.

Claire laughed bitterly. "And get arrested as a suspect? No thanks."

Her words, her reactions, her laugh all so normal, but Mary still couldn't shake that frisson of unease that chased down her spine when she met the other woman's eyes.

"The bartender said they were – a bit loud," she said slowly. Claire's mouth twisted a bit.

"Loud? Well, sure. Put it like this. If they'd been guys, there would have been a brawl in here most nights."

"You ever see anyone with 'em? Anyone, well, suspicious?"

"That fits just about everybody in here after they've had a few," Claire said. "Look, I gotta get back to work, yeah? Sorry I couldn't be more help."

She picked up the beer bottle again and disappeared into the back.

John was frowning after her. "It's too much," he said.

"Hm?"

"This stuff about how drunk they always were, the way they kept actin'… it's too much."

"I really didn't like her," Mary said quietly. "She made me – uneasy somehow."

John looked down at her thoughtfully, hair bright in the dim lamplight, biting on the left corner of her bottom lip in that way she had. The protection charm he'd given her on her last birthday lay very dark against her pale skin, nestled just above her breasts, her eyes narrowed, green slits of speculation and excitement.

It happened, of course. There were people you just didn't take to, just as there were people you had an instant connection or attraction to.

But they were, after all, Azazel's Chosen. Feelings and hints and vague sensations was where they lived most days.

"I'm bettin' her shift doesn't end for a while yet," he said.

Mary grinned up at him, bright and shining and wicked. "I like where your head's at."

John grinned back. "So do I."

* * *

Claire's apartment building was a small brownstone, squat and square, with battered-looking doors and windows that needed a wash or ten. Mary had an overwhelming impression of peeling paint and cardboard, for some reason.

The front door was locked. Mary picked it while John held the flashlight, and then they were in. Across the hall, up the staircase winding into darkness, flashlights skipping over the nameplates by apartment doors, two on each level. Claire Frampton was on the third floor.

Her apartment was empty, pitch-dark and silent. Hall, kitchen, bathroom, all perfectly normal. Bedroom door wide open opposite the sitting room, and… nothing. Family photos on the bookshelves, a cassette player, a small TV.

"Talk about a waste of time," John said, frustrated.

Mary moved past him to the coffee-table wedged between sofa and armchair. There was a small stack of documents sitting on it, more or less hidden by the arms of the furniture. She put her gun down, shifted her grip on the flashlight and started to flick through them.

Bills, a letter from a friend, a payslip, two postcards, another letter, this time on the stationary of what appeared to be a law firm.

_… regarding the sale of the property left to you by your late father…_

"John," Mary called, quick and low.

"What?" He'd been in the bedroom, behind her, and his breath was warm against the side of her neck as he leant over her shoulder. She pointed at the address silently; apparently, Claire's father had been a farmer.

John whistled. "Perfect place to store your bodies. Especially if it's about to be sold."

Mary leant back a little, rested against him. "Damn, we're good."

* * *

The farm wasn't big, thankfully. The Impala bumped across a few potholes in the road branching off the highway, and Mary cursed viciously every time. She parked the car in the shadow of the barn, and they got out, sinking deep into the springy, wet grass.

The outbuildings around them were all in various stages of disrepair. They were also all empty, as a brief search of them proved. Floorboards that creaked ominously and huge empty spaces filled with dust and dirt and a few ragged pieces of straw, a tractor in the barn, a woodpile, a few rusted tools, but no girls, dead or alive.

That left the farmhouse.

Like all the buildings, it was unlocked, hinges whining as the door opened. What furniture there was was stacked tall in corners and draped in white dust sheets, looming eerily out of the dimness. The carpets had been ripped out, the floorboards stark and pale. It was a little like looking at the skeleton of a house, Mary thought.

They made their way to the back rooms in silence, anticipation and excitement ratcheting up with every step. Wasn't that what made this job bearable? The rush, the kick, the high, all their senses heightened, never so alive as when they were seconds away from the abyss.

_Better to die in battle than in bed,_ Mary had said when they first met.

The large room at the back of the house had probably been some kind of living-cum-dining room; there was a door into the kitchen at the opposite end to the one Mary and John entered by. Next to it stood yet another pile of furniture; presumably table and chairs had been dismantled to fit under the dust sheet. A screen door, rather ragged-looking, led out into the yard, and the windows were covered in dust and yellow pollen. No curtains. One of the panes was cracked; the porch swing that sat just outside it hung drunkenly from its supports. On the opposite side of the room, an ash-choked ornate fireplace. Everything smelled strongly of smoke, herbs, and the metallic tang of old blood.

In the middle of the room stood a large altar.

It sat, a heavy table draped in black, littered with dried herbs, in the middle of a design traced across the floorboards that Mary couldn't make out; probably a reversed pentagram. In the centre of the table stood a large grayish bowl. She couldn't tell what it was made of in the dim light, but it seemed to be carved into some pretty creepy designs.

The beam of John's flashlight skipped across it briefly, glinted along the blade of a long knife lying next to it, and then came to a halt just behind both objects, fixing on a human heart impaled on a wooden spike affixed to the table.

Mary swallowed down an urge to throw up when she realised there were two more on either side of it.

"Guess you won't be finding those girls, then," a voice said cheerfully from behind them.

Two flashlights in her face, and Claire didn't even blink, smile never wavering, eyes pitch black from corner to corner, identical shards of pure evil.

"Guess not," Mary said quietly. Claire was standing directly between them and the passage to the front door; the back one was an option, but by the time they'd got it open they'd probably be dead. There was the kitchen behind them, but for all Mary knew, that was a dead end. "Why did you kill them?"

Claire – no, the demon – shrugged. "Quickest way to get your attention. God knows it took you long enough. I started to think I'd have to dump the bodies someplace _really_ obvious before you realised what was going on." Its smile grew a little more, if that were possible. "I just hope the make-up sex was worth the life of three high school girls. I hope you appreciate the trouble I've gone to setting this up by the way. Usually, I prefer blonde hosts. They're dumber."

"Well, congratulations," John said calmly. "You've got our attention. Anything in particular you wanted?"

It _tsk_ed at him. "That gun of yours will only hurt her, Johnny."

"I'm sorry, do you know anything about me at all?"

The demon actually cackled. "A thing or two. That you're Azazel's Chosen. That you're a sucker for a damsel – hell, anyone – in distress. And that you're madly in love with Ria Colt here."

Mary snorted. "I haven't gone by that one since high school."

The demon turned to her, a slow smooth motion of its host's head that was almost a glide. "It's the name we all know you by, honey. Last living descendant of Samuel himself. It'll be quite an honour to be the one to kill you, you know."

"Some other life, maybe."

"Doesn't work like that, sweetheart. You know that. Rumour has it you're too hot to handle, Ria. There's an APB out on you, as it were. And Johnny, of course. Hardly possible to separate you anymore, is it?"

"Florida," John said. "This is about Florida, isn't it? He's actually afraid of us?"

"Let's just say, you've outlived any possible usefulness you may have once had," the demon said sweetly. "So. Who wants to go first?"

John shot it before he had time to think about it too much, the bullet's impact making it stumble. Mary dodged behind him and started to chant, the _Rituale Romanum_ coming to her lips as easily as the lyrics to a Zeppelin song, and the demon let out a hiss of fury that became a shriek once it recognised the words, and moved so fast John could hardly follow, slamming into him.

The gun skittered away across the floorboards; the demon's momentum sent them both toppling into the altar, which collapsed with a crash, demon on top, pinning John down, hands scratching at his shoulders and neck.

If it had been trying to break Mary's concentration, it would have to do better than that.

John twisted away, exclamation of pure disgust when his hand fell against one of the girl's hearts, then caught the bowl and hit the thing with it, unbalancing it long enough to get free of it before it could get a proper hold around his neck, nails raking across his throat, a few blows back and forth across the room, and Mary's voice rising above the noise.

The demon stumbled, hissing angrily, Claire's body giving a jerk as the exorcism began to work. John took quick advantage of that moment, punch that sent it staggering and then he was pinning it down with his whole weight, keep it in place long enough for Mary to finish the exorcism –

"Kinky," it said, smirking despite John's hand round Claire's throat. "You do this to Mary yesterday? Bet she begged for more. If so, you oughta be flattered. Most of those countless other guys, she never made a sound."

Impossible not to be surprised by that, and Mary's breath hitched, the Latin words stumbling briefly. That fraction of a second was all it needed; John was on the floor before he knew it, and the demon bent with another burst of that inhuman speed, caught him by the throat and threw him against the wall.

"It's true, isn't it?" the demon taunted, moving steadily towards Mary. "That's how it worked. Find a bar, get drunk, fuck a guy. Or rather, let them fuck you. The vandalism, the stealing, the petty crimes were optional extras, but the drugs were the best bit, weren't they?"

Mary had fallen silent, face pale and set, hands clenched into fists to stop them trembling, backing away slowly. Whether it was fear of the demon or fear of its words, John couldn't tell. He heard it all through a haze of dizziness, something warm and wet trickling thickly down his temple, the side of his face, his neck. His head was spinning and every breath tore gaping holes in his bruised throat, but he could see the truth of the demon's words in Mary's face.

It looked back at him, eyes widening in mock horror. "Oooh. Oh, no. Didn't you tell Johnny here about Mike Reeves' party? Oh, dear. I'm so sorry. But, you know, you weren't the only one to end up in hospital after taking some of that last batch of crack, were you?"

A muscle jumped in Mary's jaw, shock and horror giving way to white-hot fury. "And here was me thinking you were sent to kill us, not play psychiatrist."

The demon laughed. Behind it, John climbed to his feet, silently as he could, shaking his head to clear it. His gun lay a few feet away… but what good would that do him?

"All that fuss," it was saying. "All that destructive energy. He thought for a while he had you before you ever set foot in Cold Oak, you know. The lengths you'd go to to forget, to block out Mommy and Daddy's screaming in your nightmares, the whine when the coffins slid into the incinerator, the photos of their corpses. Or rather, what was left of their corpses."

The poker. Leaning against the fireplace, half-hidden in the dimness. Was it iron? John could only hope so. It was certainly cold and heavy enough in his hand. He switched it from right to left so he could lean on the mantelpiece, still dizzy, and wished Mary would look up, catch his eye, read his mind, _come on…_

Mary shifted a bit, stepped to the side of the pile of furniture as if making for the kitchen door, gun hanging loose by her side, eyes never leaving Claire's twisted face, tense and wary.

The demon flung out a hand, and John saw his gun jump across the floor and into Claire's hand; Mary darted back and brought the whole pile of furniture clattering down on the demon with a crash that shook the windowpanes, catching Claire's wrist and twisting the gun out of her hand as she fell, and then, as the demon twisted and hissed and tried to get free of the pile of wood now trapping it, she punched it, once, twice, three times, quick savage blows with more fury behind them than John had ever seen in her.

He was almost grateful Claire was already dead, nose now shattered, jaw probably broken too, blood trickling back into her hair. Mary's knuckles were stained with it.

Then Mary calmly ground one boot into its neck and fished around inside her jacket, hauling out a bottle of water; she uncapped it one-handed and tossed it into Claire's face.

The demon shrieked in agony, and a smell of burning flesh went up as the holy water ate at it, but Mary's heel pressed down a bit more, unrelenting. John heard the sharp _crack_ when she bent and broke Claire's arm, chanting the exorcism again. Twice more the thing got a faceful of holy water, and then, with another shriek, the girl's body jerked, went stiff, and a cloud of black smoke billowed out of her mouth, writhing up and away and disappearing somewhere near the ceiling.

John let himself drop to the floor, head spinning. "You won't be needing this, then." The poker clattered in the fireplace.

"Johnny," Mary said, kneeling in front of him, cool hands gentle and soothing on his face, "it's made of bronze, my love."

Everything went kinda fuzzy after that.

* * *

Brief flickers of images on the way back to the Impala, Mary's arm around his waist, moonlight lighting the way across the yard. Cool metal against his side, the creak of the car doors opening, relief as he fell into the seat, but since when had his legs been made of lead? It took an unbelievable effort to get them inside the car.

Next thing he really knew, he was in the hospital.

Lights in his eyes, five words to remember, the sting of antiseptic as they cleaned out the scratches the bitch had left on his neck and throat.

Mary's hand in his, grip never loosening.

By the time John woke up again, it was morning. Sunlight flooded the small room, but Mary's body beside him warmed him more. Her head lay on his shoulder, arm flung across his chest. He turned his head a little to breathe in the smell of her hair, and let himself slip back into sleep.

* * *

"Time we found a place to hide, I think," Mary said as they pulled out of the hospital parking lot. "Looks like we're enemies of the state now."

"See, I was right about the hit list," John said.

"You just sit there and gloat while I get us outta town," Mary retorted.

"You barely let me drive the car when I'm _not_ concussed!"

"That's 'cause you're a terrible driver!"

"Bullcrap. You're paranoid."

"Paranoid is how I stay alive, Johnny."

Comfortable silence for a long while, through the town and out onto the Interstate. Mary was heading south. John didn't care which way they went, as long as they _went_.

After a time, though, he just had to say something.

"Mary. Um, about-"

She sighed. "Yeah. I was wondering how long it would take you."

He shifted uncomfortably, feeling a little ashamed. A little. She looked over at him, eyes unreadable.

"Well?"

"God, I don't know. I mean – you don't ever talk to me. About this stuff, I mean."

Mary blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "It's kinda private. Also, I'm not exactly proud of it, you know?"

"Private? Come on. We haven't been separated for longer than twenty-four hours since Cold Oak. Which, by the way, was _two years_ ago. I'm not entirely sure that 'private' can really apply to us anymore."

"Well, maybe it should," she snapped. "You don't talk about Vietnam or Alex. I don't talk about Connecticut or my parents. That's the deal."

"Oh, OK," John said. "We'll just, you know, carry on like this forever. Yeah. Never even _think_ about this stuff, let alone talk."

Mary pulled the Impala off the road and into the meadow with a furious yank of the steering wheel.

"What do you want to hear, John? That it was all true? That my juvenile record would be longer than your service one if I'd ever been caught? That I spent a week in hospital after nearly dying when a friend handed out some very _very_ bad crack at one of his parties? That you're the twenty-seventh guy I've fucked since I turned fourteen? That I was so drunk I don't even _remember_ the first one? Is that it? Or would you rather hear about how Uncle Ben wouldn't tell me what killed Mom and Dad, so I decided to go snooping, and found the autopsy photos, and the – the crime scene –"

He reached for her on pure reflex, dragging her across the seat and into his arms, and she struggled and twisted angrily, punched him in the shoulder hard enough to bruise, but then her shoulders sagged, fingers curling tightly into his shirt, face pressed against his chest, and she started to cry.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I'm so sorry, Guinevere. I love you. Shhh, don't cry, darling. I've got you. I've always got you."

She pulled back a little, sat up, hair all tousled and eyes red and puffy. God, she was beautiful.

"I thought it was a werewolf. The lunar cycle was right, and their – their bodies…"

"Don't, Mary. Don't. I'm sorry I asked – please –"

"But the longer this goes on, the more I think it was probably that yellow-eyed bastard. So. Hence my sordid teenage years."

There was more bitterness and self-loathing in her voice than grief, and John couldn't bear it. He slid a hand into her hair, wrapped his fingers round the back of her neck, thumb resting just beneath her ear.

"I've been a jerk. I'm sorry."

She sniffled. "I've been a bitch. I'm sorry, too."

"Later," he said, "you know, when we're not parked in a field by the Interstate in danger of being arrested if a police car comes by, and there aren't all these demons on our asses… ask me about Alex."

Mary pulled herself up a bit and kissed him, a bit sloppy because of their current rather awkward positions, and very wet, the taste of her tears sharp and tangy on his tongue but full of heat and longing and need just the same.

"I love you," she whispered into his mouth, fingers pushing through his hair. "I should probably say that more often, huh?"

"Don't really need to," John told her, tracing that lovely smile with two fingertips and then kissing her again.


	8. vii: and the sound of drums

**And the sound of drums**

_... in other news, a man was found dead in his home in Delhi, Louisiana, this morning by his housekeeper. Jacques Lavoisier was a retired professor of history and archaeology at the University of New Orleans and the author of several books on..._

John just caught the beginning of the news report as he stepped into the motel room, balancing a pile of Chinese take-away boxes that wobbled precariously when he stepped over the salt lines.

"The maids are really gonna hate us," he said.

"These days, everybody does," Mary said dryly. She was sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed, barefoot and tired-looking, throat dark with bruises. "You ever been to Louisiana?"

"What happened to getting to Dan's as quickly and unobtrusively as we could?" John asked, sitting down next to her. Ten days and four more demon attacks since Pennsylvania, and perhaps it was no wonder she seemed a bit... peaky. Wan. That was why he'd made her stay here, inside the salt rings and with the weapons, while he went for dinner.

Mary gestured at the TV with the remote. "That report just now? Jacques Lavoisier? Archaeologist. Came to the US after the Nazis invaded France – friend of Ben's."

"You wanna work a case with half the demons in Hell tryin' to kill us for a crime we haven't committed yet?" he said incredulously.

"Johnny, I know. But I don't think this was a coincidence. Jacques was an... archivist. Lot of hunters come by his place looking for information. He might've known something about this. Us."

"Says your gut instinct," John said slowly, watching her.

Mary tossed her hair. "It's rarely wrong."

True.

"Louisiana."

"Delhi, Louisiana. Right on the Interstate, barely out of our way. We can head north to Colorado from Texas or Georgia. The more roundabout our route, the less likely they are to find us. If they even know about Dan's place, which isn't likely."

John wasn't convinced. "What if it's a trap, like York?"

Mary sighed. "Might be," she admitted. "But it just feels... I mean, Jacques getting killed at the same time as you-know-who decides we've 'outlived our usefulness?' Something's goin' on."

It wasn't sensible. Anything but. It was risky and dangerous and the odds were that it was a trap neither of them would get out of alive, and John wanted nothing to do with it. He wanted to get to Dan's and disappear into the mountains where they could spend the rest of their lives hidden far away from demons and darkness and the taint that lived in their very blood. He wanted to find a quiet hole in the wall to crawl into and never come out of, to live out his life wrapped safe and warm in Mary's arms, where he could pretend that demons and ghosts were still only the bedtime stories he'd thought them for twenty-two years of his life.

But she'd been right, back in York. They'd been running and hiding for two years now, and it had brought them nothing but a long succession of hunts and recurring near-death experiences, and deep inside him John knew they couldn't keep going like this. Not anymore.

He curled his hand gently around the back of her neck, mindful of her bruises, leaned his forehead against her temple. She turned towards him a little, and he bent and kissed her neck, just below her ear by her jawbone. Mary smelled of sweat a little, of soap, of her lemony shampoo. Her hand pushed his tight t-shirt up a ways and rested lightly over his hip, thumb digging in and moving away again in slow rhythmic strokes.

"Louisiana it is, then."

"Hold me a while," she whispered.

"Dinner," he said, lying back on the bed.

"I've eaten cold Chinese before," she murmured into his skin, curling around him. John rolled them to one side, his back to the door, and held her tight.

* * *

Twenty-four hours later John was sitting – uncomfortably – in a seedy bar on the outskirts of Delhi, plying the coroner's assistant with alcohol. Turned out the guy was talkative to the power of a thousand. John's eardrums hurt.

"It was awful, man," he was saying. "Awful. Guy was torn to pieces. Literally. Like a wild animal had done it, you know? But they found him in his bed, for Chrissakes! With all the doors locked. No windows... yeah, I'll have another one. Thanks. Anyway. No windows broken. I mean, the state of the body, it was... the whole thing was just freaky, man. Poor guy. You know they never even found his _heart_?"

A fist-sized stone dropped into John's stomach and started getting colder by the second. He straightened up slowly, staring at the coroner's assistant, dread and excitement mingling in his gut.

Not many creatures took their victim's heart after a kill. The lunar cycle was all wrong for a werewolf; so that left only one thing John knew of. Demons.

Mary had been right.

"Mutilated to the point of being unrecognisable, and the heart missing," he told Mary when he got back. They lay in bed again, his body curled around hers, one leg tossed across her thighs protectively, her back pressed against his chest. His breath stirred her hair as he spoke. "Sound familiar?"

She shuddered, leaning back against him, drawing his arms more tightly around her. "The kids in Cold Oak. If they killed him – if _he_ killed him – Jacques _must_ have known something."

"Only one way to be sure," John said. She shifted in his arms then, turning to him and threading her fingers through his hair.

"I'm scared," she said softly. "Somehow... I mean, is it crazy to feel like we've been... _happy_?"

"We haven't brought about the end of the world," John observed, pulling her closer. Glad she couldn't see the relief on his face in the darkness. He wasn't the only one a little afraid of what they were doing here after all.

"This could all be over in weeks," Mary said quietly, her breath ghosting over his face. "I mean... whatever it was, it was probably big, right? Like, binding-spell or demon-killing-weapon big. We could... we might be free of him by the end of the week."

"God, I can't even imagine it anymore."

"Yeah," she breathed. He cupped the back of her head in one hand, fingers sliding through her hair.

"I love you," he told her.

She smiled. "Oh, is that what you're still doing here? I couldn't work it out."

He just kissed her.

The next morning, Mary was up first, and already showered by the time John hauled himself out of bed. When he'd finished, he found her curled in a chair by the window with a far-away look on her face, lower lip caught between her teeth, elbows on the table. She looked like she'd been counting something on her fingers.

"Everything OK?"

"Yeah, sure." The smile she gave him was practically blinding, but something lingered in her eyes.

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Sure. I mean, I know this is hard – you knew the guy, after all."

"Oh, yeah. No, Johnny, I'm fine. Really. I haven't seen him since I was about eighteen, anyway. More worried about Amélie, actually."

"That's the daughter?" When she nodded, he continued, "Apparently no one's been able to get hold of her."

"She's at college. Probably sitting in her dorm with all the phones off, finishing a paper. Or watching her hand move."

"Ouch."

"Hey, I did some stupid things in high school, as you now know, but you'd think you'd get over that sometime, right?"

"You'd think," he agreed neutrally. She kicked him under the table.

"Hey. I'm allowed to joke about it. Just... no one else."

John supposed that was OK. Their fight in Pennsylvania – or rather, how Mary had reacted to it – had thrown him for a loop a little...

... OK, a lot.

OK, he was totally confused about it on a _good_ day, of which there hadn't been many since that demon tried to kill them at the gas station that very same evening and the ensuing fight had trashed the whole store before Mary had exorcised the thing (John was starting to think he should probably learn a few of those rituals off by heart the way she had). Times like that he was almost afraid of her, but then he remembered the way her whole body had seemed to collapse in on itself when she'd brought up her parents, and all he wanted to do was hold her close and make sure nothing ever hurt her like that again, because he simply couldn't bear to see her in such pain.

And he almost thought she felt the same way about him, because she _had_ asked him about Alex, and 'Nam, and he'd told her as much as he could bear to, voice low and choked and angry in the dark of the motel room, gun cool and heavy in his hands, longing for the harsh burn of whiskey down his throat and the slow warmth it brought, all the while knowing that if he started drinking in this mood he'd never stop, and then she'd wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him silently for a long time after his words had run out.

Not to mention that between fights and confessions and demon attacks and running and hiding, they hadn't made love since Pennsylvania, either. Not that the physical side of their relationship was what held them together, far from it; but John felt the absence of it was a definite sign that something was off. On the whole, it had always been pretty awesome, and neither of them had ever been awkward about it or anything. Add to that how much paler, how tired Mary seemed...

In short, their whole rhythm was off. At exactly the time they needed it most.

"We're a little fucked, aren't we," she said now, a statement not a question.

There was no denying it. "A little, yeah."

"Any constructive thoughts on that?"

"You mean... anything more constructive than _let's stay here inside the nice safe salt circles and pretend a demon didn't try to strangle you in the bathroom at that last rest stop in Arkansas?_"

"Well, seeing as how the talking approach only seems to have made something worse that wasn't broken in the first place."

"Broken, no. Maybe a little... superficial?"

"Superficial. Yeah, I think I can give you that."

One of the worst traits Mary Roberts and John Winchester had in common was that neither of them got upset about things. They got angry, furious even, and then there was wholesale destruction of _something_, usually other people's property, and after that a pile of shards and fragments were left that weren't really all that hard to put together if you knew how, but unfortunately that particular art had always eluded both of them.

Till now, anyway.

"So seeing as the disastrous _talking_ thing was my idea... what's yours?"

Mary put her hands down flat on the table and started to smirk. "Let's stay here inside the nice safe salt circles and have passionate make-up sex?"

"This all kinda started with passionate make-up sex," he pointed out reasonably, trying not to let her see how much he wanted to drag her out of her chair, push her up against the wall and kiss that infuriating smirk away.

She knew anyway. "I don't remember you complaining then."

"Damage control," he said, determinedly _not_ looking down her shirt when she leant forwards just a little, warm curves practically beckoning to him. The expression 'alabaster skin' was just plain cringeworthy, but Mary's paleness had a sort of ethereal perfection to it – especially in the dark, when he couldn't see those freckles that –

"Dammit."

"What?"

"Are we – I don't want us to be one of those couples who solve everything with sex. Because that never solves anything. It just hides it."

Mary's eyebrows shot up.

"It's the only explanation I've got for why the General stayed married to Ma for as long as he did," John deadpanned.

Mary grimaced. "Gross. OK. Look. If we were that couple, we would've had sex in York, like, immediately afterwards, and you wouldn't even be here anymore anyway, because we'd never've survived all the – the running and the salt circles and the possessed waitresses trying to strangle me in the bathroom. I mean, being attacked all the time is a little different to just hiding in the woods together, right? We would've fallen apart over all that. Shattered. Into pieces. Right?"

John drew back a little. "After everything – after _Florida_ – you still felt the need to... what?" He was totally confused now. Something told him she was no better.

Her hands twisted together on the tabletop. "I love you. You know I do. And I trust you, completely, so completely it scares me sometimes. In Florida, I knew – just knew – that you'd find me. All the time, I never once thought... What I – that is – I don't know if, you know, after everything I said, after everything I did back then, in Connecticut, if you'd... still trust me. I mean, some of it was pretty awful."

"Yeah, you're a terrible person, I can tell," John said, dripping sarcasm. "Why would I _care?_ Twenty-seven or eighty-seven, as long as you're mine now."

"Yeah, um. I really didn't keep count, you know. I mean, that was just a – a random guess. There weren't – there really weren't many at all. I don't think."

"I love you," he said. "And I trust you, completely. More than I've ever trusted anyone in my life."

She smiled at him then, a real, warm, infectiously happy smile that softened all her sharp edges and lit up her eyes, and that more than anything was what killed his self-control every time.

Of course, it shifted back into that damn smirk when he pulled her out of the chair and up against him, but by the time they reached the bed they were both breathless with want_,_ taste of instant coffee on his tongue when he kissed her, his hands running over her hips up her back and into her hair while her warm wet mouth traced over _every_ muscle in his chest _at once_ and her fingernails scraped across the skin above the waistband of his jeans, so it didn't really matter anymore.

The rest of the world could wait a while.

* * *

"Shouldn't we call the daughter first, or something? I mean, her Dad's just been killed, she oughta know."

They were standing outside Lavoisier's house, about to go in. It was past midnight already, and the sliver of moon they could see did little to light their way. Still, John had flatly refused to risk the flashlights as they came up to the house. The night was muggy and close, and while John was fairly sure nothing knew they were here, he still felt jumpy, uncertain; the skin between his shoulder-blades itched, and his palms were sweaty. The heat, the humidity, the warm smell of rotting wood and wet vegetation around them all reminded him of the jungles, and he felt oddly naked, caught in enemy territory without his gear or backup. As if the Vietcong were out there prowling the Louisiana backroads! It was ridiculous.

And yet.

"Later," Mary whispered back. "She doesn't know about our... line of work. This is the only opportunity we're going to get to see the house."

Mary at his side was a steady source of comfort, a quicksilver wraith in the dark, barely contained danger and a calm that came with complete and total trust in each other, but John still couldn't help wishing for Alex' quiet confidence at his back, common sense and steadiness always there to catch him.

He was the one who hadn't been there to catch Alex. In a strange way, all John's angry defiance of Azazel – then and now – was as much for his friend as for himself, or Mary, or the very world.

They'd left the Impala down the road a ways, hidden in the shadows of the lush greenery, and snuck silently through the trees to the wrought-iron gate leading into Lavoisier's drive, hard to miss even in the gloom and easy to scale. The drive itself was old, potholed tarmac, dotted with muddy puddles and littered with fallen branches and leaves, like getting out of the house and back to civilisation had always been the least of Lavoisier's worries. There were deep tyre-tracks through the fallen foliage left by the cop's vehicles, but that hardly made it better.

Mary would have cursed a blue streak if they'd taken the Impala up here, John suspected. Even now, she was eyeing it with an air of surprise and irritation.

"Little behind on the housekeeping duties," he said softly.

"Starting to wonder if there were reasons I haven't seen him in so long," she breathed.

John cocked his head at her questioningly.

"Always a little reclusive," Mary explained, barely audible. "This, though..."

The house itself was two-storied, whitewashed with a wide porch held up, curiously enough, by columns that looked pretty authentic Greek. Considering Lavoisier's profession, they probably were. The overall effect of them was an impression of squatness, as if the house was meant to be much taller and grander than it actually was, but had somehow gotten stuck at some point half-way through construction. The garden was much better kept than the drive.

Getting inside proved to be easy. All they had to do was sneak up to the front door and pick the lock. The cops had even removed the crime scene tape from the door.

Once the door snicked shut behind them, Mary headed down the hall, past the staircase and into the back room. French windows opened out into the garden.

Then she turned the flashlight on and swept it round the room, and all John could see was gold. It glittered at him from every direction, statues, papyri, a pharaoh's bust, from behind the glass doors of the two large display cases, the decor of the mummy case in the corner by a door that seemed to lead into a study. Paranoid as he was feeling at that moment, those little glimpses of treasures long forgotten were absolutely terrifying, the strange shapes and unfamiliar art jumping out of the darkness and dancing in Mary's flashlight beam like something out of H. P. Lovecraft's nightmares, cavorting gleefully in the fast-moving light.

"Jesus," he said. "Didn't he know better than to keep a dead body in the house?"

Mary chortled. "Apparently not. It's pretty spectacular, huh?" They spoke in low hushed voices, and she shut the flashlight off once she'd made sure he was suitably impressed.

"Amazing."

"Can you take the upstairs? I don't really..."

"Sure. There a study up there?"

"No. Just that one." She nodded at the door next to the mummy case.

"Won't be long, then."

The snap of the safety catch on her gun followed him up the stairs. The trip proved unnecessary; there wasn't anything up here. It seemed Jacques had kept his work pretty separate from his down time. John passed Amélie's untidy room, two spare bedrooms, a large bathroom, and then came to the master bedroom.

Clothes tossed across a chair, doors leading out to a balcony, boots lying by them, photos on the chest of drawers, a shelf of novels, from Rousseau to Flaubert to Camus, that wouldn't have looked out of place on a college French class' reading list. The last tattered shreds of a man's entire life scattered across a room.

The police had stripped the bed, but dark red bloodstains still decorated walls, floor and bedposts. John wasn't sure whether or not he was imagining it, but the smell of rotting human flesh seemed to linger in the room: the stench of death.

_The stench of Cold Oak_, his mind whispered.

He closed the door and went back downstairs to rejoin Mary.

"Nothing?" she asked. "Me either. It's all in this room, and the study."

"I don't suppose he had an inventory of his collection," John said, and sighed when Mary shook her head. "How are we supposed to tell what's missing?"

"None of the big stuff. I would have noticed."

"So jewellery, then, the stuff in the display cases, books, that sort of thing," John muttered. He did a one-eighty turn, taking in the whole room and all its weird and wonderful occupants, and had a sudden urge to start smashing things. They shouldn't be here, it wasn't safe, and every flicker of their flashlights, every murmur of sound, every footstep only increased the possibility that they would be found... and attacked.

"Paranoid much?" Mary said quietly from behind him. She must have put her flashlight away, because as she spoke, her hand slid into his, fingers twining together and holding on tight.

"Paranoid is what keeps us alive," he pointed out.

She chuckled dryly. "Good motto to pass on to our kids," she whispered.

"If we play this right, the only motto we'll have to pass on to our kids is _do what thou wilt but stay away from your grandmother,_" John said. Mary gave another dry little laugh and stepped in close, resting her forehead against his shoulderblade. They stood like that for a little while as the little sliver of moon still left rose outside, casting a dim shadow over the room.

Finally, Mary moved. She straightened up and nudged his side with her gun. "C'mon. Study."

"Get this over with," John agreed, following her across the room. He stopped short at the door by the mummy case.

"Fuck. Did someone get here before us?"

Mary, already standing knee-deep in a sea of scattered papers and books left lying open, grinned. "Nah. It's always looked like this."

"The _General_ doesn't leave his study in this much of a mess," John said blankly, staring round. "And you can barely _move_ in there."

Mary had to step very carefully across the room to reach the window and shut the blinds. Then she nodded at him; he looked down and left and found the light switch.

Unlike the ostentatious display room, there was no gold here – just paper. Bound in books or scattered loosely, shelves of leather-bound notebooks with their spines cracked, photographs of artefacts and digs taped to the walls or shelves. One bookshelf with a locked glass front seemed to hold more papyri and a few other books – maybe first editions of some kind – that looked like a sneeze in the next room would tear them apart. There was a curved scimitar hanging on the wall above the desk to the left of the door, gleaming brightly and probably as sharp as the day it was forged. It was absolutely beautiful. John paused to admire it for a few minutes before lifting a pile of books and papers off the nearest chair, putting his gun down on another stack next to him, and starting to read. Mary sank crosslegged to the floor opposite him.

Most of it was in English, but Lavoisier obviously still had many friends among the archaeological community in Europe. John passed the French and Spanish papers over to Mary without even trying, and she handed him the German ones, and a few letters in Yiddish and Hebrew. His grasp of the last two was courtesy of Caroline Stendahl, but it had been Allison who had made him take a foreign language in high school. Vietnamese had come in more useful on his actual tours, but now John was profoundly grateful to her.

"Italian?" he asked Mary at one point.

"Hand it over. It's all one big happy family of Latin languages."

"And you speak Greek, right?"

"I _read_ Ancient Greek. There's a difference or ten. And so do you, by the way."

"Yours is better."

Mary huffed and snatched the notebook off him. "I swear to God, I don't know how you survived before you met me."

_Neither do I_, John thought. All he said was, "Before I met you, I didn't _need_ any of this stuff."

"Yeah. It's called wasting your life." He was sitting next to her by now, both of them leaning against the wall as they read their way through the biggest of the stacks, knees and hips touching, and revenge was the easiest thing in the world: hand sliding under her shirt to that stretch of skin above and behind her hip where she was most ticklish, and his mouth on hers to swallow her shriek.

"Keep your voice down, Roberts," he growled into her mouth, and then she was muffling his yelp as her foot connected with his shin rather painfully.

"Fuck you, Winchester," Mary said cheerily, and went back to her reading.

With the blinds and windows closed, it quickly grew unbearably hot in the little study. John almost thought he could see the papers curling up, the books practically melting apart. Both he and Mary were sweating, their clothes clinging to their skin. They'd been reading for nearly half an hour when John found a large envelope on Lavoisier's desk that had been opened but then resealed, all its contents stuffed back inside.

At least, he assumed they were the original contents. The envelope was postmarked a month or so ago, from Jerusalem; there was every possibility it had arrived at around the same time as John and Mary had been in Pennsylvania.

John sat down again and tore it open.

Surprisingly enough, the letters and documents were in German, not Yiddish or even Hebrew. John recognised the name signed – a Dr. Johann Leuchtentrager – from various other letters to Lavoisier. He specialised in early Jewish history, it seemed – preferably before the Roman invasion and occupation of Judea and the city of Jerusalem. Lavoisier had specialised in Egyptology, as evidenced by the outer room, but being Jewish himself had apparently been specifically interested in the Exodus from Egypt under one of the many Rameses' – John couldn't remember which. The two men had corresponded quite a bit about it.

He almost felt he should be more interested in it all, but the idea of being Jewish was inextricably bound up with Caroline to John, and he'd known since that year in London that his mother was the Antichrist and nothing good would ever come of anything associated with her. Katie had had a bat mitzvah, and managed somehow to still be casually faithful to their mother's religion, but John never had.

"Are you Protestant?" he asked Mary suddenly.

"Roman Catholic."

"Tudor, or Stuart?"

"Oh, of Guise."

"Didn't her husband die of hysteria?"

"Second husband, yeah."

"... Great."

"Why d'you ask?"

"Just... thinking."

"Well, don't strain yourself, love."

"About my mother. And being technically Jewish, and having kids and stuff."

Mary stared at him. _"Now?"_

John had to admit she had a point. "Well..."

"Johnny. Read."

He dropped his eyes to the envelope and its sheaf of papers, biting back a grin.

This latest letter from Leuchtentrager talked about a dig somewhere outside Jerusalem – there were photos in the envelope he'd laid to one side – detailing the point of the expedition, mentioning a strange body found. Then John's eye caught on a single word: Haradan.

_... an der Klippe Haradan gefunden, wo, wir dir bekannt ist, die Israeliten damals eine Ziege dem gefallenen Engel Azazel zu opfern pflegten..._

"Holy crap," John whispered.

"What is it?" Mary scattered a pile of archaeological journals leaning over towards him.

"It's an amulet," John said hoarsely, never taking his eyes off the page in front of him. "An amulet found on the mummified corpse of a man discovered at the foot of the Haradan cliffs in Jerusalem."

Mary sucked in a sharp breath. "The Biblical legend says – "

John nodded, still reading, hands shaking so much in excitement that holding the paper still was quite an effort.

_... von, wie mir scheint, ägyptischer Herkunft, aber Du bist besser qualifiziert als ich, dies festzustellen oder zu wiederlegen , mein Freund... Legende der Grigori im Buch des Enoch, und dem Erzengel Raphael, der auf die Erde geschickt wurde, um deren Sündhaftigkeit ein Ende zu setzen... diverse Schriftrollen, welche von dieser Geschichte erzählen... wurde spekuliert, dass eine Tonfigur als Symbol für den Engel Azazel an der Klippe substituiiert wurde, aber der Fund dieses unglücklichen Mannes lässt düstere Bilder von Menschenopfern oder vielleicht die Bestrafung eines besonders grausamen Verbrechers erahnen..._

"John?" Mary whispered.

"That's how they did it," John breathed. "No Devil's Traps. No fancy spells. They bound him in the host, Mary. They trapped him in the body of the man he was possessing, and this amulet – this amulet! – is what let them do it."

There was a pencil sketch of the amulet in question on the letter: less than the length of Mary's thumb, a sort of animal god with a human face roughly sketched in.

"It's a Key, all right" John said quietly. "It's like those tattoos, those binding links, only far stronger. It doesn't just trap the demon inside its host; it suppresses its powers. Maybe even after the host himself died."

Mary jumped to her feet. "It's gotta be in the house," she said. "It's _gotta_. Jacques was too smart to leave it lying around in his study for them to find!"

"Mary – " John said, staring at her. "Mary – love – he's dead. Why kill him if they didn't find it?"

"Who knows why demons do anything?" she burst out. "Johnny, c'mon. We have to look. _We have to_."

John stood up slowly, frowning; there was an urgency to her movements that worried him, but she was right. They couldn't just walk away, not now, not when there was every possibility that they were on the edge of defeating him for good. They'd tear the house apart first.

"I'll take upstairs again," he said. "Quick as you can, and for God's sake, be quiet."

"I'll start with the other rooms, we'll leave this one till last," Mary said. "It's the most obvious place to hide it."

John nodded and slipped off. Mary pushed her hands through sweat-soaked hair and drew a long breath. Her throat was dry and aching a little, and she wanted to curl up and sleep till Doomsday.

Thing was, if she did curl up and fall asleep, Doomsday would roll around a lot sooner than planned.

The heat just seemed to get worse as Mary tore the display room apart. It was suffocating, clinging, wrapping itself around her, crawling over her skin like a live thing, and that was when she knew.

It wasn't the heat making her so uncomfortable, almost nauseous.

It had been waiting in the corridor for her; as Mary left the room at almost a run, mouth open to shout for John, the demon struck her across the face, a staggering blow that sent her sprawling. She twisted in midair to fall on her side, jarring her hipbone rather than fall on her face, and another awkward desperate squirm had the demon's vicious kick catching in her thighs rather than her lower back.

"Where is it?" the thing snarled, drawing a foot back for another kick. Mary couldn't avoid it, pressed up against a dresser as she now was; it would connect somewhere around her kidneys, or worse –

She scrunched herself into a ball and sobbed out, "I don't know! Please – please leave me alone – "

The demon laughed aloud, terrible mockery of human mirth, and bent over her. It grabbed her shoulders and rolled her over. Mary looked up into the face of a boy, barely seventeen, black and very handsome. She felt a flicker of regret as the knife she'd drawn out of her boot raked across his face.

The demon shrieked in anger and yanked away, human instinct taking over the body for a brief second, and Mary rolled to her feet in one smooth motion. She flipped the knife around in her hand and stepped in close, avoiding the angry blow easily, thin blade poised to stab, not slash.

There was a sickening popping noise as she stabbed the boy's eyes out with two brief vicious jabs. The demon shrieked again, clawing at the air, but what powers of regeneration it had weren't enough to reconstruct human eyeballs, and without them it couldn't see. It fled the boy in a billow of black smoke before Mary had even got past the opening words of the exorcism.

She had just enough time to kill the boy as quickly and painlessly as she knew how before pain ripped through her head, agony like a steel lance tearing through her mind as well as her skull, a dreadful pressing weight on her consciousness that cancelled out thought and memory and sight sound touch taste smell and then her body was moving against her very will, standing up and walking away from the boy's corpse and how could she fight it with that agony searing her?

_dead, dead, you're both dead, oh He will be pleased with what I've wrought this night, what say you Ria Colt will you watch as your hands wield the knife that kills your lover will you fight me will he notice before the cold steel slips between his ribs will he die thinking you betrayed him at the last or shall we let him live a little, tear him limb from limb slowly so slowly ah sweet sweet pain so delicious so alive how long can he withstand our torture how long can you survive it shall we make him watch as I strip you naked and hold you down for another to fuck will he take pleasure in that perhaps we'll take his eyes his eyes that you love so much the way you took those boy's how about it Ria will you bury your hands in his open chest and hold his heart in your palms?_

Mary screamed at it, wordless and raging, no fear in her now, too furious, too desperate to know fear, a single ceaseless sound of anger, and then, like a knife that had been lodged deep in her chest ripping out of her flesh, leaving her torn and bleeding, it was gone. She was bent double on the floor, barely two steps away from the boy's bleeding corpse, heaving and gasping for breath, climbed to her feet a shaking wreck.

Every word it had spoken to her, every sibilant hiss and whisper had left images seared into her mind that would not go away. John dead and dying and torn apart at her hands, her hands that she had no control over and oh dear God please no please!

But she didn't have long to cry and tremble.

The second demon came at her from behind, a woman this time, not bulky but tenacious, pinning Mary's arms to her sides, trapping her.

"The Key!" it hissed. "The Key, and you live."

If she'd been facing it, Mary would have spat at it. As it was, she kicked out behind her, sound of something snapping in the host's knee, and then let herself sag limply and suddenly. The demon was knocked off-balance first by the kick and then by Mary's dead weight, and it stumbled. Mary seized on that moment quick as a cat pouncing, getting her feet under her and flinging herself back against the demon's body, shoving at it with all of her weight and momentum.

"Bitch!" it snarled out as her knife ripped a seam in the host's arm, but unlike the other one, it didn't let that human pain distract it from its goal. Mary didn't need it to, however. They'd fallen and staggered past the boy's corpse to the door of the study, and there she stabbed with the knife once more, at the host's already-unsteady knee, the blade driving in and lodging deep as she twisted it, and at the same time, she flung all her weight backwards a second time.

The demon toppled over, still clinging to her, and now they were rolling around on the floor, hitting and scratching. Mary managed to get loose briefly, but it caught her thighs and dragged her to the ground, forcing her down, the host's weight keeping her pinned in place. The woman's face was completely devoid of anything resembling emotion now.

"The Key," it said again.

"You're lookin' in the wrong direction, Gollum," Mary quipped past the stranglehold it had on her maltreated throat.

The demon's head jerked up to stare at the ceiling, and Mary pitched it off her with one last huge effort. The Devil's Trap was painted so heavily on the white ceiling it looked as if it had been seared into the plaster.

There were more scattered across the house. Jacques used to repaint them twice a year religiously, no matter how faded they weren't.

The demon stood up as Mary did, watching her impassively. She pressed a hand over her abdomen, bloody knife hanging loose by her side, eyes bright with triumph.

Then, it bowed to her.

"You might have been our Queen," it said.

Mary tossed her head at it, loosened curls falling over her shoulders, defiant and calm.

"By Elbereth and Luthien the Fair," she said dryly, "you shall have neither the Ring nor me."

The host's perfectly plucked eyebrows arched a little. "And your lover?"

"He's mine too," Mary said calmly. "Hands off. _All_ of you."

The wooden floorboards were wet with the boy's blood, and she slipped and slid out into the hallway, trembling now as the adrenaline of the last fight faded and the images the first demon had left in her mind began to re-emerge.

_Never,_ she thought. _Never, I swear, never. They won't take you from me the way they took my parents. Not like that._

The noises of the fight upstairs crashed in on her all at once as she reached the main entrance hall before the front door, dull smack and thud of flesh hitting flesh, skitter of a weapon across the floor, crash of breaking furniture, harsh gasps for air.

"John!" she shouted.

Bent back over the banister, demon's hands around his throat, hand groping for the carved pole at the top of the stairs, the corner of the elaborately carved banister. Mary watched his whole body tense up and brace, and then John pushed up and around, using his grip on that pole to make them turn the corner and come crashing down the stairs. Mary jumped aside and then waded in to catch his shoulders and drag him out from under the Devil's Trap at the bottom of the staircase.

The demon rolled into a crouch, trapped but expressionless.

John coughed and wheezed as she helped him up. There was blood on his arms; when she wrapped a hand around his upper arm she could feel the cuts there, the little hard pinpricks against her fingers that spoke of glass in the wounds.

"Mirror in the corridor," John said. "How we doin'?"

Mary let herself smirk a little. "I got two."

He turned to look at the heavyset host behind them and then back at her, face deadpan. "They sent two after you?"

"Well, you are a bit of a rookie," Mary said, matching his expression perfectly.

John's hands slid into her hair, cupping her face, warm and steady and alive. "Good news is, I found the safe," he told her. "Behind the mirror."

"I'll take care of them," Mary said. "You go get it open."

"You will not be permitted to use it," the demon behind them said.

John shifted his weight a little, shoulders stiffening, taking on that lazy arrogant look that Mary hated. She was sure he'd picked it up from his mother.

"I'm not so sure 'permitted' really comes into it anymore," he drawled.

The demon's mouth twisted. Amusement? A snarl?

"You are still His creatures," it said.

John's mouth tightened angrily. Mary knew why: all his life he'd been _Winchester's boy_ or _Caroline's son,_ and that was bad enough without being an appendage to a Prince of Hell as well.

Mary, on the other hand, couldn't care less what it thought of her. Ria Colt was no one's appendage, and even those hunters who still called her _Lisa's girl_ or _Ben Roberts' niece_ were smart enough not to do it to her face. Everybody knew who she was, not who her folks were.

"Well," John said, admirably calm, "when you get down there, tell our mutual friend it's Independence Day."

* * *

"You did what you had to," John said in the car, speeding eastwards down the Interstate.

"He was seventeen at most," Mary said, wriggling around in the back seat until she got her bloodstained jeans off. Lucky for John it was dark.

"Better him than you."

She paused with her clean trousers halfway up her legs, half-naked and awkwardly positioned.

"The thing I feel bad about is that I don't feel bad about it, and I should," she said bluntly. "What I mean is – I'd do it again. And I shouldn't admit that. I shouldn't feel it."

John was silent for a while then, remembering gunfire and jungles and the wet soft slide of a knife across another boy's throat in the Wyoming mud.

Then he said, "You're OK. We both are. When you start not caring at all whether or not you feel bad about it – that's when you're in trouble."

Mary struggled into her jeans and shirt in silence, sensing experience and knowing better than to push him – not now, not here.

* * *

It wasn't even dawn when they arrived in Shreveport. They grabbed a room for a few hours, laid saltlines, dealt with John's injuries. Mary was pulling her clothes off almost as soon as the last splinter of glass fell into the coffee-mug by the bedside, climbing onto John's lap and taking his mouth with desperate urgency. He met and matched her easily, without question, banishing the last nightmareish images the demon had left with hands and mouth and deep slow thrusts that blotted out all her world but him.

The Key sat nestled in its black velvet box on the bedside table, untouched and unopened.

John was the one who stayed calm and focused all that morning, paying the motel owner an (to Mary) unspecified amount to look after the Impala – if we're not back within two weeks at the latest, two weeks, remember, don't call too early, then call this number – yeah, Arkansas area code – and tell Deacon that Alex West needs him to come to Shreveport to take care of a few things. Yeah, give him my description – just remember that name! Alex West to Deacon. Oh, he'll know what's happened, don't worry.

They barely avoided a demon attack in the airport, the sudden arrival of a horde of pale, flabby-looking tourists in the terminal the only thing that saved them. Again John's credit card, mostly unused for the last two years, worked wonders: they were on a plane to Wyoming within the hour, the threat of Caroline Stendahl hanging over the airport staff who served them.

Mary would have found it amusing if she hadn't been so busy trying not to throw up as soon as the plane left the ground.

"You've _never_ flown before?" John said incredulously, hand warm and steadying on her lower back as she put her head between her knees.

"Don't scoff, you bastard," Mary said. "Besides, I'm –"

"I know," he said. "I'm nervous too."

He thought he heard her mutter something, but it quickly became a pretty wretched groan.

* * *

The 'pursuit' fell away as soon as it became obvious where they were headed.

"I don't think he – or any of them – can possess us, not truly," Mary said at one point. "I shook off that lesser demon in seconds."

"That'll give us an edge," John said.

Those were the only words they spoke between leaving the airport and reaching an all-too-familiar stretch of woods.

It was evening once more as they forced their way through the trees. They met no resistance, no sign that anyone knew they were there. No sign that anyone – or anything – was there already, waiting for them.

Once or twice, John thought he saw the bleached white of human bone tangled in the undergrowth, the remnants of the other kids of their generation, their bodies finally discarded by the demons that had chased him and Mary out of the town two years ago. He didn't mention them to her.

She'd had the spell since first coming to Dan's those awful weeks after Abe's death, their first face-to-face meeting with the being so determined to ruin and twist them both into creatures unrecognisable, demons in human form. He'd found it in one of the old tomes he collected, and had handed it to Mary with the simple remark that you never knew what might come in handy. Now she pressed one knee on a corner of the paper to stop it blowing away in the cold angry winds that swept the small village square, and chanted the words traced there slow and steady as her blood dripped into the bowl and a smoke went up around her.

"Mary. Mary, Mary, Mary. My beauty."

He wore the body of a man around John's height, dark and tall, in his thirties perhaps. Handsome, clean-cut, dripping sex and seduction and pleasures unimaginable.

"Azazel," she said, swallowing the lump of nervousness in her throat.

"Ria," he said, stepping closer. There was no more than a sliver of moon, and the candlelight was dim, but his eyes glowed brightly just the same. "Which do you prefer, my beauty? He calls you his Guinevere, but you're no hapless damsel, my love."

She shuddered at those loving names only John had ever called her before now, Azazel's fingertips against her jaw, her chin, burning points of flame on her skin.

"No," he continued, English accent low but precise, purring but sharp, come-hither and commanding. "No, you're no Guinevere. You are Morgaine; you are Medb. You are the Morrigan, Goddess of War, Warrior and Queen. My Queen."

Both his hands framed her face, her jaw, tilting her head back slow and gentle and her skin burned burned burned where he touched her. He wasn't breathing. Mary wasn't sure the host was even alive as he drew her upwards to him, mouth ghosting over hers.

"You will be the mother of the future, my beauty," he whispered. "Mine forever."

His thumb pressed against her lips, parted them, rubbed slowly aside. Mary's arms came up around him, fists resting against his shoulders, then sliding over them, hands unclenching slowly, slowly.

"Forsake him," Azazel said, still so close, an order not a request. "Forsake him, and be mine."

"Just like that," she whispered.

Now she did feel his breath on her face, a tiny gust of air as he huffed out a laugh.

"Just like that," Azazel agreed. "Did you not come to me, my beauty?"

Mary stepped back at last, pulling away from that rotting beauty that surrounded him, that seductive voice caressing both her body and mind, speaking of pleasures unimaginable, ecstasy eternal, the whole world and everyone in it existing solely to bring her joy.

The Key glinted dull gold around Azazel's neck as he cocked his head off to one side, frowning at her. It lay against his shirt, which was perhaps why he hadn't noticed it; or perhaps it had been dulling his senses and blunting his powers from the minute he'd been summoned.

"Not exactly," Mary said, loud as she could to drown out her fear and relief.

John's hand curled warm and heavy around her waist as he joined her, the scrolls he'd taken from Lavoisier's safe in his other hand. The spell was written in Greek as well as Hebrew, fortunately, or maybe Mary wouldn't have been able to help him at all. As it was, her pronunciation might be a little off, but she could read it.

Azazel let out a low hiss of fury that sounded more like the noise an enraged serpent might make than anything fit to come out of a human's throat, no matter how twisted.

"If you touch her again I'll destroy you," John said softly, holding that burning yellow gaze without flinching.

Mary snapped the flashlight on and began to read.


	9. viii: happiness, staggering on

**Happiness, staggering on down the street  
**

John would never recall those two days in Cold Oak with much clarity, but snippets of them haunted his nightmares for the rest of his life, brief flickers of scenes he couldn't bear to remember fully.

Pain, darkness, bone-deep weariness. An unending struggle against a weight that threatened to crush him. Mary screaming. The jungles, over and over, trapped in that deadly, poisonous green, that landscape of death and decay. His mind wandering through long-forgotten memories, refusing to obey him when he tried to summon the words to the spell.

Yellow eyes staring into his very soul.

But at last, it was complete. Azazel was trapped, bound and buried by sunrise on the third day, and so John and Mary staggered out of Cold Oak for a second time, no demons on their heels now, exhaustion the only thing that hampered their progress.

* * *

They flew back to Shreveport still jittery and nervous, and bought out a room for two weeks at the motel. Mary was too tired to even fuss over the Impala; she just fell into bed, asleep before she'd even hit the pillows, and John followed suit. They slept for the first three days, and made love for most of the next two, passion fueled by joy and relief and a sense of freedom neither of them could put into words.

It wasn't as if they'd ever been any good at the whole talking thing anyway.

* * *

Mary couldn't sleep. It was just past six in the morning, and she was sitting on the steps outside the motel room, clutching a cup of coffee and staring into the distance. Already, the sun was creeping across the parking lot; it would be a lovely day.

She hadn't taken a single sip of coffee. It was there to warm her hands, and to smell – or so she'd thought. Actually, it was making her a little nauseous.

Super. On top of everything else, she couldn't even _smell _coffee anymore, let alone drink it. And for the first time in a long while, she really wanted a cigarette.

She shouldn't be this afraid. It was ridiculous. Mary Roberts was never afraid. Of anything.

And yet.

The sound of the door opening behind her made her jump a little, and there was John, barefoot and shirtless, hair a tousled mess, wearing his most stubbornly determined expression.

"So I've been thinking," he said without so much as a 'good morning'. "About, you know, before cold Oak, and now this whole not-sleeping quiet-and-anxious thing of yours…"

She stared at him. "Yeeeeeeesssssssss?"

He knelt in front of her, voice low and worried. "Are you OK? I mean… we're both a little messed up right now. I've had nightmares too, love. And I – I'm just worried about you. Would you please talk to me, Guinevere? Tell me what's wrong. Let me fix it. Please."

Mary drank him in, the sight of him, the warmth coming off him, the smell of oil and leather and soap that clung to him, the sound of his voice when he called her _love_.

She wanted to hold on to this memory forever. Just in case.

_Enough, Roberts. Time to bite the bullet. How long did you really think you could hide this from him? Besides. You're doing him an injustice. You've got no reason to act like this. And it's not as if you didn't want it._

_It would all be easier if you didn't want it._

"Johnny, I'm not having nightmares. Really. I'm OK. And there's – there's nothing to fix. Don't look like that, there isn't. It's just… well, I… it would seem… John, I'm pregnant." She forced the last words out in a quick rush, and then bit her lip anxiously.

He stared at her. "Pregnant?"

"As in, having a baby? Carrying your child? You know?" She was practically squirming on the step, waiting for a real reaction.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"You're sure?" The stunned look was slowly being replaced by something else.

"Yup."

"Huh."

"Uh-huh. It… Pennsylvania, I think. I mean the week after I should've had a period, and I didn't, and I've just missed another one this week, so… yeah. I'm pregnant."

"So you… you haven't seen – course you haven't – OK, first thing after breakfast, we'll go. Get you checked out. Yeah?"

"Yeah. Good idea. Um. And then?"

"Then? I… guess we'd better get married."

Mary felt her jaw drop. It probably wasn't the reaction John was expecting, cause… no way was he embarrassed. Didn't happen to John. He could make her blush furiously with a brush of his fingers over the small of her back and a low whispered reminder of the things they'd done to and for each other the night before, but he himself was _never_ embarrassed.

And yet, there he was, awkward as all hell, scratching at the back of his neck, sure sign of any nervousness or uncertainty in John Winchester.

"I mean, you know, if you, uh, if you… want… to... Mary, say something. You're staring."

"Married? Really?" Disbelieving little whisper. He loved her, she knew, and she loved him, so much she wasn't sure it was even possible, but somehow the idea of marriage had never entered her head.

He started to grin, boyish and delighted, eyes dancing, never leaving hers. "Be easier, wouldn't it? What with, you know, finding someplace to live, and getting jobs and so on, and bringing up our kid."

"You want a baby," she said, as if she'd never had any doubts at all.

"I want this baby," he agreed, pulling her forward into his arms, tilting her face up to his for a kiss. Then he drew back, frowning. "Should you be drinking coffee?"

"It's actually making me kinda nauseous," Mary admitted, curled in his lap, and thumped him when he started to laugh.

* * *

John wasn't really surprised when his fiancée (fiancée!) handed him the keys to the car and curled up in the passenger seat, dozing off almost instantly, when they left Shreveport. Damn her for keeping her pregnancy a secret so long – worrying about it so much.

On the other hand, he couldn't really blame her. There was a sick churning of nervousness and terror and excitement and joy in his gut that threatened to leap up into his throat and choke him at any given moment; if Mary was feeling anything like this, he thought he understood why she hadn't said anything for so long.

They were closer to Kansas than Connecticut, so the plan was to go home and spread the good news… which wasn't making John nervous in the least. Oh no. Ma would be furious when she heard – would be more than happy to tell him in no uncertain terms that he was throwing his whole life away _(and for what? Some cheap blonde who could've been knocked up by anyone? Don't be a fool, Jonathan)._ Katie would be delighted to see him but angry he hadn't been home in so long. She and Mary had met a few times already; they got along well. The General would be quietly pleased. Probably make some crack about dynastic requirements and firstborn sons. Allison might be a bit more difficult to win over, but John could do it.

First, though…

They stopped for lunch near Tulsa at around two in the afternoon, and Mary soon fell asleep again when they got back on the Interstate. She woke up in the evening, just as they were passing the 'Welcome to Lawrence!' sign.

"Your Dad move house or something?" she asked, yawning.

"Not that I know of. Got something to show you."

"I want coffee."

"It makes you nauseous," John reminded her.

She pouted. "I know."

Half an hour, a box of doughnuts, and a large chocolate milkshake later, the Impala rumbled to a halt on a street in the middle of Suburbia, well-kept and quiet, in front of a small house that looked a bit run-down, in need of a paintjob and a new roof, but otherwise…

"Quaint," Mary said. "I like the garden. And the creepy-ass tree. What are we doing here?"

John shut the engine off and turned to look at her. "It's mine," he said.

Only Mary's ingrained concern for her baby car stopped her from dropping the rather dribbly milkshake beaker onto the seat.

"What?!"

"Well, you know how I told you that I was on that road-trip with Deacon because I needed to work up the nerve to tell Dad a few things…"

"Yeah?"

"This was one of them."

"Wow."

"Are you speechless?"

"A little, yeah."

"Wow."

"Why didn't you tell me? And how did you pay for it?"

"Hello, trust fund? That we've been living off for the last two years? Thought I'd use it to, you know. Get my life back. After Nam. I wanted my own place, you know? Not rented, somewhere that belonged exclusively to me. Was gonna get a job, too; friend of a friend in the Corps runs a garage in town. But then there was Cold Oak, and – I mean, it's not exactly quiet and out-of-the-way and safe from demonic attacks, is it? And, you know. I didn't want you to – I know what you're like, OK? I'da told you, and you'd have felt all guilty and – oh, you know. Besides, there was no way I was coming back before we were… done with that bastard."

Even now, they both had trouble saying his name.

Mary was grinning. "I don't know if I've ever told you this, but you're unbearably cute when you babble."

John gave a sort of choked-off sporfle of laughter, forehead resting against the steering wheel. "You're not mad?"

"Maybe later. Show me inside?"

* * *

Mark and Colleen were completely unsurprised by any of their news, which was not to say they weren't delighted and on their way to Lawrence by the end of the phone-call. Mary was itching to talk to Colleen, presumably about things like pregnancies and wedding dresses, and John was grateful someone she loved would be there with her while he talked to his dysfunctional, messed-up, slightly neurotic and perpetually _loud_ family.

So the day Mark and Colleen arrived, John Winchester headed home for the first time in two years.

Nothing had changed. The messy garden, the outer wall that needed a repair or ten, the gates that squeaked when he pushed them open. He ran a hand along the top of the low wall beside the driveway, worn and shiny with years of his and Katie's fingers rubbing over it for luck, a riot of greenery between it and the outer wall as always.

The General's car was in the driveway, and John grinned at its familiar shape, moved around it, towards the house. Front door opened, and –

"And this," the General said rather sarcastically, surveying his son from the porch steps, "is what's often known as the return of the prodigal."

"Hi Dad," John shot back. "Nice to see you too."

Then they were hugging, and it was only then John knew, really, properly knew, that it was over, Azazel was gone, they'd done it, they'd bound him, and he was finally safe.

"So," Harry Winchester said, drawing back a little, hands on his son's shoulders, "to what do I owe the honour? And you'd better make it quick, or I'll be late."

"Well," John said, not hoarse in the least, "I'm… not in trouble anymore."

"Comforting. And, uh, Mary?"

"We're gettin' married sometime this month."

"Somehow, I can't say I'm surprised," Harry remarked, thoroughly enjoying his son's embarrassed delight. "Why the sudden urgency?"

"She's pregnant."

"Christ Almighty. Don't let your mother know, she'll pitch a fit. Was round here not long after Christmas, lookin' for you, with an offer about joining the business. If I didn't know better I'd say she's got mellow. Suggested you come do college out there – Berkeley, Stanford, someplace like that."

"She's lost her fuckin' mind."

"That's what I thought you'd say. Incidentally, where is she?"

"Who, Ma?"

"My daughter-in-law, you idiot," the General snapped, reaching out to hit John upside the head. "The girl who's pregnant with my grandson?"

John ducked away from him, laughing. "Right. Um. Well, in Lawrence. I bought a house there a couple years ago."

"Caro told me."

"Ma knew? What, she's been monitoring my accounts?"

"Wouldn't surprise me. Listen, kid, I've gotta go. You go tell Allison and Katie – I'll come over tomorrow. I want to make sure Mary knows what she's doing, marrying you."

"Charming, Dad," John called after him as he got in the car. "And what do you mean, grandson?"

"Better be," the General said through the open window, but he was grinning.

"Serve you right if it is a girl," John said as the car left the driveway.

So far, so good.

* * *

"You get the feeling we're having judgement passed on us, or something?" Mary murmured to John next day. Their families had assembled, as if by subconscious mind-control, at the house in Lawrence, which Anna and Tom were now diligently exploring. The General and Ben Roberts were quickly discovering they rather liked each other, so_ that_ was all right. Katie was for once making especial efforts to like everyone, and although she wasn't succeeding with Ben, she, Colleen, and Mary were soon as thick as thieves. Mark and John were in charge of the food; there was an old barbecue in the back of the garage that Allison was giving suspicious looks. One trip to the grocery store later and the picnic was almost ready.

Allison… John loved his stepmother, really he did, she _was_ his mother in all but the biological sense of the word… but sometimes, she reminded him disturbingly of Caroline.

Not that they were anything alike as people; it was an attitude, a bearing, a mindset that came with their entire class, and he loathed it. Allison would never say out loud that she thought Mary was beneath him (he wasn't even sure she consciously thought it), but it was there, sometimes, in the way she looked at his fiancée, at the clothes Mary wore, the attitudes and opinions and accent she had, her taste in music, her movements that were closer to a cat's quick powerful grace than a lady's demure elegance, the swish in her hips that John loved, the calluses on her hands, God, even the _car_.

Mary had noticed it too. She was right, it did feel a little like they were being judged: their relationship, the house, their half-formed plans for the future; all of it.

It was evening by the time John finally got a chance to talk to his sister. She went inside to use the bathroom, and he followed a minute later. They sat on the little landing halfway up the stairs, drinking beer and talking quietly.

"Picked out names yet?"

"Early days, Kat."

"Uh-huh? You always have everything planned in advance."

"I thought I might name him after Alex. Not as a first name, but…"

She chuckled. "He'd love that. Tease you forever. Woulda liked Mary, too."

"I think so, yeah."

The silence stretched between them for a while, comfortable and familiar. John hadn't quite realized how much he'd missed her before now. Katie yawned, put her head on his shoulder.

"Missed you, you know."

He wound his fingers through hers. "Missed you too."

"Nervous?"

"Terrified."

She laughed. "You'll do great. I mean, you're both totally crazy, but you… you fit, you know? You and Mary."

Little catch in her voice that made him look up.

"You OK?"

"Broke up with Paul."

"Good. He's too nice for you. Too saintly."

"He's not Alex," she said, and John let out a long breath. She'd never admitted it to him before.

"No, he's not."

"Alex tell you?"

"Didn't have to."

"Promise you won't blame yourself anymore?"

He laughed a little brokenly. "I'm trying."

"Amanda's getting' married, too," she said in one of those conversational one-eighty turns she could only ever take with him.

"Good for her. Hope she's happy."

Katie snickered. "I'll lay money on it that she'd dump him in an instant if you gave the word."

"Kat… come on!"

"Mean it. She asks after you sometimes. Musta made an impression."

"Yeah, by dumping her and taking myself off to the jungles for two years."

"Well, try not to run into her in town. She'll go all soulful and moony and Mary'll probably slap her face."

John started to laugh. "She did have a bit of a melodramatic streak."

"A bit? Hey, have you talked to Ma lately? She was round here at Christmas, acting almost human. Held court in the Ritz in town. She and Allison snubbed each other mercilessly, and the General disappeared underground for three days straight."

"I'm surprised you crawled out of that hole you call a dorm room long enough to notice."

"Caroline Stendahl's arrival in Kansas City sent shockwaves across the continent."

John snorted. Ma could be pretty flamboyant when she wanted to.

Then Katie sobered again. "You know," she said, "you could still go to college."

College. Books, classes, lectures, new friends, coffee and concerts, any subject he was even remotely interested in, from history to engineering. It wouldn't be easy, not by a long shot, college and the baby, but they could do it. Mary could go too… _should_ go. She was too smart to spend her life working in stores and picking up their kids from school. Hell, they both were. It wasn't as if money was a problem yet.

Demons clawing at him in a twisted grey wood, open graves on fire, spirits and monsters, the stench of blood, black altars and Devil's Gates, an amulet that held the power to trap a Prince of Hell.

Mary. The baby growing inside her – his baby. It would be hard enough learning how to be normal, to bring up their child, to live together in a house instead of a series of motel rooms, without adding college to the mix. Like the baby would give a damn if Daddy had a degree or not, just so long as he or she _had_ a Daddy who was there for them always, who put them first no matter what.

"No," he said quietly. "No, Katie, I couldn't."

Katie smiled at him. "Guess not. I want that spare room on the end here, though."

* * *

A few days later, after dinner at the Winchesters, Allison cornered Mary in the kitchen and asked about the wedding plans.

"Soon, obviously," she said, the words _what with the baby_ hanging unspoken in the air. "But preparations take time, you know. Bookings and such."

"Oh, well, we weren't really planning on any preparations," Mary said.

Allison's eyebrows began to climb.

"Just a quiet ceremony. I mean, the only guests are, well, you guys, and Deacon and Sophie, as he's John's best man."

"That sounds perfectly lovely," Allison said, smiling a little. Mary could tell she was a bit disappointed she wasn't going to be organizing the social event of the year, but on the other hand, small and tasteful appealed to her too. "What about your dress, dear? Have you thought about that? My sister was married in our mother's dress; maybe you…"

Mary bit her lip. Lisa Colt's wedding dress lay hidden in Mark's attic in Connecticut, and her daughter hadn't laid eyes on it in ten years. Bad enough that Uncle Ben and not Dad was giving her away; bad enough that she was asking Colleen and not Mom about stuff like morning sickness and iron supplements and maternity clothes. Wearing Mom's dress to be married in would just about break her.

"No," she said. Had to take a deep breath to steady her voice and lean against the counter for support. "No, I think – I'd like to be married in green, actually."

Allison was more observant and sympathetic than Mary had given her credit for. She reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her future daughter-in-law's ear. "Green, hmm? Would certainly look lovely with your eyes."

Mary smiled at her.

* * *

"Stop worrying," Deacon said. "You'll be fine. Mary will be fine, and everything else-"

"-will be fine?" John said, not pausing in his quick restless pacing. "How do you know? You know what she's like. Unpredictable as the weather."

"I know she loves you," Deacon said. "Any idiot can see that."

"_I_ know she loves me," John snapped. "But love and marriage aren't the same things. And there's the baby. She gets a little crazy. _I_ get a little crazy. We're not _ready_ for this. Not grown-up enough."

Deacon caught him by the shoulders and spun him round to look at him. "Win! You're freakin' out over _this?_ Some dumb ceremony? The things you've shown me this last year… even before that, the things the two of us have faced, and you're freakin' out over spending the rest of your life with the woman you love."

John laughed in spite of himself. "Put like that…"

"Right."

"OK then."

Comfortable silence for a few minutes.

"Alex oughta be doing this," Deacon said softly. "You know. Holding the rings and whatever."

John looked down and away, sharp stab of grief tearing through him. Then he met his friend's eyes with a grin. "Nah. He'd be too busy laughing his ass off at me in a tux to remember his lines."

Deacon laughed at that. "Probably would. Come on, man, let's get you married."

* * *

The ceremony went by in a blur. So did the party afterwards, to which several of John's old friends and a few people his parents knew had been invited.

"I'm sorry about that, but most of them have known John and Katie since they were children, and would probably be offended if they didn't get an invite," Allison had said. Mary didn't mind, as long as it didn't turn into an event Elizabeth Taylor would be jealous of. She had no doubt Allison was perfectly capable of organizing one of those.

Her dress was absolutely lovely, long and flowing and the perfect shade of pale green-blue, scoop-necked with a back and sleeves that mostly hid the scars across her left arm and shoulder. But she wasn't used to tighter, restricting clothes or high heels, or the weight of the necklace Allison had leant her around her neck. God, she was tired. She and John had taken a few turns across the dance floor, of course, but right now Mary was settled in a chair, watching him talk to a couple at the buffet; the girl was blonde and sweetly pretty, mooning over him despite the engagement ring on her finger.

She couldn't be bothered to go over there and slap the look off her face.

Mary brought her own left hand up for the thousandth time that day to study the simple silver band around her finger, small diamond nestled behind it. John's rings. She was his wife. He was her husband. He was _hers_.

Her right hand was resting over her still-flat belly, warming and protective.

His hand brushed her shoulder, curled around the back of her neck. She looked up at him.

"Shall we go, my Guinevere?" he asked softly, their whole future shining in his eyes.

The dress and shoes were new. The necklace was borrowed. The silver clip that held her hair up was old: it had been her mother's, and Uncle Ben had waited till the last minute to give it to her, knowing she'd refuse it otherwise. The bra and garter and panties were palest diaphanous blue. Watching John's face as he hooked his fingers into the waistband and gently drew them down was the one part of the day Mary remembered most clearly later on.

* * *

"The house, sure," John said. "Somewhere in there I was pretty certain there was the house and renovations and all that stuff. But the one thing I never pictured us doing after it was all over was picking out teddy bears."

"I know," his wife of two months said dreamily, drifting along the rows of stuffed toys. "Isn't it amazing what the influence of a good woman can do to a guy?"

"The only woman who's ever had that much influence on me is _far_ from good."

Mary turned to him then, green eyes glinting in the garish lights, arms crossed over her chest. "Far from good? Maybe your girlfriend was a little less than virtuous. And maybe your wife has a bit of wild side, but the mother of your son, John Winchester, is going to be _above reproach_. Remember that. I got my share of malicious gossip in Connecticut."

John nodded slowly, eyes on hers. He'd meant it as a joke, but he could tell how serious she was. Mary would never admit to wanting normal in the conventional sense of the word, because she truly didn't, she enjoyed being a hunter… but being accepted wasn't the same thing. "I'll remember. Above reproach. What about this one, my Guinevere?"

Mary shook her head at him, taking the bear off him. "Guinevere was _anything but_ above reproach."

"Of course she was. She was an idol, a goddess, untouchable and perfect, the most beautiful creature in the kingdom."

"So you're Arthur after all?"

"No way. I'd rather be the man you love and can't have than the man you have and can't love."

"Oh, I know. It's obvious. The baby's Arthur. Don't they say babies put a terrible strain on a marriage?"

"We wouldn't _have_ a marriage if it weren't for the baby," he pointed out. "Besides, he or she already has a name."

She laughed then, eyes bright and mischievous, and held out the teddy bear he'd chosen. "Fine, then. Johnny, meet King Arthur."

* * *

Maybe a week after that, John got home on Friday evening to find Mary leaning against the side of the Impala, parked in the street, glaring balefully at six or seven huge cardboard boxes sitting piled on their front lawn.

"The hell?" he said. "I thought you didn't believe in retail therapy?"

"I don't," she said. "That right there? Is a Trojan horse."

"A Trojan horse. On our front lawn?"

Mary looked at him for the first time, glare only softening a little. "It's a nursery. A radioactive Trojan horse nursery. From your mother."

"From _my mother!"_ John yelled. "What do you mean, _from my mother?_ Is she _here?_"

He'd rather die than let Caroline Stendahl within a hundred miles of his unborn kid. Her evil aura would probably bring on a miscarriage.

"I don't think so," Mary said. "There's this letter… it's addressed to me, though. Mrs. Mary Winchester. That looks pretty good in writing, you know. All sorts of blather about wanting her grandchild to have the best, and being sorry that she's lost touch with you but maybe this will go a ways towards making up for it, the meddlesome bitch." She waved it under his nose angrily; he snatched it off her and started to read.

"You can say that again," John said when he'd finished, furious. "How dare she? Make amends, my ass. As if Caroline Stendahl could ever get mellow! She might melt if we dump enough holy water on her. She wants the baby because neither Katie nor I will ever make an acceptable heir to the Stendahl fortune – Kat's too far along with med school, and she gave up on me long before I left for 'Nam. And now this. I'm burning the lot, Guinevere."

The nickname made Mary smile for the first time that day. Since they'd been married, he used it more and more often, and she loved it.

"There's also mention of a Roosevelt being in one of the boxes," she said. "I hope to God she means FDR, because I'd never get over the shame of having the other one in my front yard. My mother's spinning in her grave as it is, having a Republican for a son-in-law."

John laughed out loud and kissed her.

Mary found Roosevelt in the baby's nursery the next day: a battered teddy bear with an ear missing and a slightly rakish look in consequence. John said his Dad had indeed named it after FDR, but Mary knew he was lying. _Arsenic and Old Lace_ was one of the General's favourite films.

* * *

The house was finally finished one day in late September. Mary dressed up, and they cooked a long and elaborate meal, and then ate ice cream in their shiny new redecorated living room, finally tidied after having served as their bedroom for so long while the roof was being fixed.

"Option number one," Mary said when they were done, side-by-side on the sofa, her head on his shoulder. "We can go upstairs and try out the new bathtub. Do you realise it's been months since I've had a proper bath?"

"Or option number two…" John said, letting it trail off, tangling a golden curl around his fingers.

She smirked at him.

"I think I'm gonna go with that one," he said, standing up and lifting her into his arms. She laughed out loud, wrapped her arms around his neck, kicked her sandals off as he carried her upstairs.

"I'm sorry we didn't get to do this on our wedding night," he said quietly as they reached their bedroom, but Mary shook her head emphatically.

"Don't be. I prefer this way. You know, we've literally built our life together, the last few months."

John laughed. "I hadn't thought of it like that."

He laid her down on soft clean sheets and stripped quickly, suddenly very aware of her eyes on him, the frank admiration in her green gaze. She let him undress her, smooth the silky material away from her skin, open-mouthed kisses following in its wake, her hands in his hair, on his shoulders, the only sounds his breathing, her soft gasps, the whisper of his work-rough hands over her skin. John let the dress fall to the floor, ran his hands back up her long legs, paused to kiss the burn scar above her knee, then over her hips to her belly, and laid a hand over that soft swell with a possessive pride Mary would have kicked his ass for if he'd been able to put it into words.

Or maybe not. She arched against him, pressing closer, drew his mouth down to hers. "All yours, Johnny," she murmured into the kiss. "Both of us. Always. Forever."

* * *

Last year, they'd spent Christmas at Mark and Colleen's place. Mary knew perfectly well that travelling was out of the question now, considering that she'd be eight months along by the end of December, but it had been a bad day, and the issue made for a good excuse for a fight.

John wasn't really up for it. Neither was she, she soon realised. They yelled at each other rather halfheartedly for about ten minutes, and then gave up.

"This is ridiculous," Mary burst out, dropping onto the sofa with her head in her hands. "I mean, OK, strenuous physical activities not so much, fine, but I can't even have a proper fight with you anymore?"

John was struggling not to laugh. Mary had always had the occasional fit of irreverence and craziness, but to say that pregnancy made them more frequent was a bit of an understatement. "Look," he said, "I get that-"

"No, you don't," his wife cut across him, somewhere in between anger and just being fed up. "You really don't. I'm sick of this, John, I'm sick of waiting. I don't do patience very well, and I want the baby _here,_ now. Being able to walk and run and wear real clothes and fight with you properly, not to mention make love, would be pretty great too, but right now, I don't – I don't know what the hell I'm _doing _anymore."

He came over to her, drew her into his arms carefully, and she pressed her face against his shoulder with a sort of sob-sigh.

"And you've been treating me like a china doll, which I absolutely hate," she said quietly.

"You're _pregnant_," he said. "Makes me a little nervous about… well, everything."

Mary didn't say anything; just curled tighter against him.

"Guinevere?"

"I've never done this before, dammit. It _scares_ me. And I just – I really want my Mom right now." Little broken catch in her voice, and John gathered her closer still, held her till her choked-off sobs died away.

* * *

Dean Alexander Winchester was born on a Sunday. The evening before, John had come into the kitchen for a drink and found Mary standing in front of the open fridge, bar of chocolate in one hand, a very strange look on her face – fear and pain and awe combined.

He hadn't needed to ask what it meant.

The doctor was a little surprised that he insisted on being in the delivery room with her, but let him in, with looks that said _you'll regret this_.

John did. How on earth women could go through this over and over was beyond him. He'd seen Mary in pain before, of course, they'd both been injured at various times over the years, but he had never been so utterly helpless to do anything about it. About the only thing he could do now was be there with her, let her grip his arm till it bruised, rub her back, encourage her.

Finally, around six a.m. in the morning of January the twenty-fourth, it was over, and Mary and John found themselves with a small, squirming, crying bundle of humanity that looked nothing like either of them. The doctor promised he'd pass the news on to the General and Katie, waiting downstairs (and John would be extremely surprised if Ben, Deacon, and everyone else they'd ever known hadn't arrived by now, too), and then left them alone with their son.

Such awe on Mary's face as she held him, yawning a little now, his crying dying down as he lay cradled against his mother's warmth.

"Hello, Dean," she whispered to him. "You've kicked up quite a fuss this morning, you know. There were a few times I thought you'd never get here." She reached out to let his fingers curl around hers – or as far around as he could reach. "A lot of fuss," she whispered. "All over one tiny baby."

"Fitting entrance for a kid of ours," John said softly, climbing onto the bed next to her, drawing her back to lean against him. "Hey, Dean. I'm your Dad. You already know who your Mom is, don't you? Thought so. We're going to spoil you rotten, you know. Absolutely rotten. You'll be the most loved and looked-after baby on this planet."

Dean blinked up at him, silent now and solemn, as if he heard and understood and believed every word, and then yawned again.

Mary chuckled wearily. "Not too rotten," she quietly. "I hope I'm not going to be the sort of mother that expects things from her kids, but I expect you to be a good man, my Dean. Kind and brave and loving... Like your Dad, and like your namesake. I never met Alex, but your Daddy loved him very much, and I think he'd be proud you've got his name."

John pressed his lips against her temple, eyes squeezed shut to keep in sudden tears.


End file.
